sat her down at the table with a few polite, empty words, then walked out and left her there alone. She heard a key turn the door's lock.
Elsie could only stare around the bare room in silence. A powerful knot of dread appeared inside of her, inviting her to panic. She vowed not to give in to it. Instead, she committed herself to turning its energy toward fueling her anger, and to focusing her mind while she waited for a weakness to appear in the situation. Then Elsie Sullivan, a grieving widow who had entertained most of the city's powerful citizens right inside of her home, would finally have her opportunity to turn the tables on this puffed-up little policeman. She would guarantee herself the opportunity to calmly observe him while he stood broken and publicly humiliated, all out in the open, for anyone to see. She would stand aside, coolly watching, dressed in something especially fine.
Why do men always have to kill their enemies? It's so much better to let them live, while you torment them from a distance and prolong their suffering.
She needed to urinate badly enough to feel concerned about it. This situation needed to be resolved before she was forced to put herself in the vulnerable position of having to ask to use the facilities. She tried to estimate when that would be. Thirty minutes? An hour? Say an hour, then. That single hour more or less defined her timetable for this encounter. No matter why they had dragged her here, it was crucial for her to get back out within that much time.
Keys jingled on the other side of the door. Then came the clicks in the lock. When the door opened, Elsie watched the doomed police officer walk in. He was by himself. She quickly checked his name tag.
Blackburn, then. Sergeant Randall Blackburn.
She sat quietly and kept her face impassive while he closed the door, stepped to the table, and pulled up a chair. He sat down across from her. She decided not to give him any satisfaction by speaking first.
Let him make the overture.
The sergeant simply pulled out a torn scrap of paper with some childish handwriting penciled across it. He appeared to run his eyes over the lines again, then he set the paper down on the table and looked up at Elsie, studying her face. She felt his gaze movingaround on her. Nevertheless, she fixed her eyes on the door, raised her chin, and said nothing.
But the sergeant, instead of speaking, just picked up the scrap of paper and read it over again before he finally lowered it back to the table and returned his gaze to her face, still reading her in some fashion. She cursed herself when she felt the old hot rash blushing its way across her upper chest and throat.
That was it. The business with the paper scrap appeared to be some sort of attempt on his part to provoke her. Elsie decided not to let him toy with her this way. She was going to speak first after all. So what? It meant nothing, to speak first. She set an ironclad control on her voice and prepared herself to lash out with quiet power. Then she turned to face him.
“Sergeant Blackburn, I am trying to imagine what possible circumstance could arise that would cause you to have me arrested and brought here like a criminal, when all you had to do was to send word that you wanted a meeting.
What
could be so compelling to you that your men would deny me the right to get properly dressed before leaving my home?" She held her voice down, perfectly pitched to show calm control and absolute determination.
“It doesn't matter what you have on," the sergeant quietly replied. "Think of Miss Pairo, sitting alone in a cell right now. What do you think she's wearing?" His voice was even softer than hers.
Don't take the bait!
Elsie matched his technique and lowered her voice even further. "Sir, perhaps a male who wears a uniform every day cannot appreciate the social expectations placed upon a woman's manner of dress,
especially
when she mixes with the city's most powerful and influential people. On a daily
Elsie could only stare around the bare room in silence. A powerful knot of dread appeared inside of her, inviting her to panic. She vowed not to give in to it. Instead, she committed herself to turning its energy toward fueling her anger, and to focusing her mind while she waited for a weakness to appear in the situation. Then Elsie Sullivan, a grieving widow who had entertained most of the city's powerful citizens right inside of her home, would finally have her opportunity to turn the tables on this puffed-up little policeman. She would guarantee herself the opportunity to calmly observe him while he stood broken and publicly humiliated, all out in the open, for anyone to see. She would stand aside, coolly watching, dressed in something especially fine.
Why do men always have to kill their enemies? It's so much better to let them live, while you torment them from a distance and prolong their suffering.
She needed to urinate badly enough to feel concerned about it. This situation needed to be resolved before she was forced to put herself in the vulnerable position of having to ask to use the facilities. She tried to estimate when that would be. Thirty minutes? An hour? Say an hour, then. That single hour more or less defined her timetable for this encounter. No matter why they had dragged her here, it was crucial for her to get back out within that much time.
Keys jingled on the other side of the door. Then came the clicks in the lock. When the door opened, Elsie watched the doomed police officer walk in. He was by himself. She quickly checked his name tag.
Blackburn, then. Sergeant Randall Blackburn.
She sat quietly and kept her face impassive while he closed the door, stepped to the table, and pulled up a chair. He sat down across from her. She decided not to give him any satisfaction by speaking first.
Let him make the overture.
The sergeant simply pulled out a torn scrap of paper with some childish handwriting penciled across it. He appeared to run his eyes over the lines again, then he set the paper down on the table and looked up at Elsie, studying her face. She felt his gaze movingaround on her. Nevertheless, she fixed her eyes on the door, raised her chin, and said nothing.
But the sergeant, instead of speaking, just picked up the scrap of paper and read it over again before he finally lowered it back to the table and returned his gaze to her face, still reading her in some fashion. She cursed herself when she felt the old hot rash blushing its way across her upper chest and throat.
That was it. The business with the paper scrap appeared to be some sort of attempt on his part to provoke her. Elsie decided not to let him toy with her this way. She was going to speak first after all. So what? It meant nothing, to speak first. She set an ironclad control on her voice and prepared herself to lash out with quiet power. Then she turned to face him.
“Sergeant Blackburn, I am trying to imagine what possible circumstance could arise that would cause you to have me arrested and brought here like a criminal, when all you had to do was to send word that you wanted a meeting.
What
could be so compelling to you that your men would deny me the right to get properly dressed before leaving my home?" She held her voice down, perfectly pitched to show calm control and absolute determination.
“It doesn't matter what you have on," the sergeant quietly replied. "Think of Miss Pairo, sitting alone in a cell right now. What do you think she's wearing?" His voice was even softer than hers.
Don't take the bait!
Elsie matched his technique and lowered her voice even further. "Sir, perhaps a male who wears a uniform every day cannot appreciate the social expectations placed upon a woman's manner of dress,
especially
when she mixes with the city's most powerful and influential people. On a daily
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