Part 5 (1/2)

Bra? Devon fires the woman a look of shock, crosses her arms over her chest.

”It's for your own safety until Mental Health talks to you.”

Devon feels her throat tighten, and she closes her eyes. She is so tired, so miserable, so utterly worn down.

”Look.” The woman guard clears her throat again. ”I don't . . . I won't give details, but bras can be used for dangerous purposes. As can blankets and sheets and even mattresses, the reason I had you leave your bedding outside.” She pauses. ”So, please. Let's just get this over with. Your bra?”

Wearing bras is dangerous? Devon's mind spins back before she can stop it. His lips on her face, leaving soft kisses on the tip of her nose, across her closed eyes. Her throat. She sighs, throws her head back, and his lips travel down the length of her neck. Tremors sizzle through her spine. His hands move gently down her back. Reaching under her s.h.i.+rt-slowly, cautiously-his fingertips touching her skin, an icy electricity. Unhooking the clasp . . .

Devon shakes her head, pus.h.i.+ng the memory away. No, when bras come off, that's when things get dangerous.

She opens her eyes. The woman guard's hand is out, waiting.

Devon presses her lips together and slowly turns away. Reaching behind her back, Devon shakily works the clasp from the outside through her jumpsuit and the unders.h.i.+rt beneath. Under her collar, she loops a thumb under one strap and shrugs it off her shoulder, then loops and shrugs the other strap before pulling the bra off entirely and out one sleeve. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s are heavy and sore and only reluctantly surrender their damp fabric, finally slapping painfully against her chest.

Devon b.a.l.l.s up the bra in her fist.

The tears are building again, so close and ready to roll. She breathes deeply. Keep it down. Don't break now. She grabs her b.r.e.a.s.t.s then because she must; they are hard and hot, that p.r.i.c.kling again. The warmth wets the jumpsuit between her fingers, trickles down her ribs.

Devon turns quickly, thrusts the bra into the woman's hand, not meeting her eyes. ”It's wet”-A small sob squeaks from her throat. ”It's so gross. I'm . . . sorry.” She covers her face with her hands.

”Oh, listen.” The woman's voice turns gentle now. ”Don't be.” She pats Devon softly on the shoulder as Devon sniffs and gasps with her effort to force the tears down. ”I'll get it washed in the meantime. Okay? And bring you a clean jumpsuit.” The woman pauses, her hand lingering on Devon's shoulder. ”Everything's going to be okay. I know it doesn't seem like it now, but eventually it will. I promise.”

Devon's resolve is caving with that woman's simple gesture. Her body shudders with the strain of keeping it all contained: the shame, the pain, the watching eyes, the secret whispers, the end the end the very end of everything.

Just go! Devon's mind screams. Please just go and leave me alone!

One last squeeze on the shoulder, then the woman's feet step away, brush across the cement floor.

”Oh.” The woman turns back momentarily. ”I almost forgot: welcome to Delta.”

The door clanks shut.

That sound again.

Heavy. Metallic. Final.

Devon stands with her face in her hands for a long time. Then she curls up on the rubberized mattress, turns toward the wall.

chapter five.

”Devon?”

Devon opens her eyes, squints at who's peering at her from her opened door. The voice belongs to a woman, someone unfamiliar. Light streams from behind this woman and into the dark cell, was.h.i.+ng her out, so all Devon sees is a faceless shadow of a shape.

A dream. Devon closes her eyes, draws herself into a tight ball.

”Devon.” The voice again, more persistent. ”Devon, my name is Dr. Bacon. I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes. Would that be okay?”

Devon's eyes snap open. She's awake and cold. She sits up abruptly, looks around. Her back is slick with sweat, her unders.h.i.+rt sticks to it. A sweat that would fit if she were on a field with a ball, newly clipped gra.s.s under her cleats. But she's not. She's inside a tiny cell with a toilet in the corner and a cement floor. The sweat exists because of the rubberized mattress beneath her and under that, the molded plastic bed.

”Devon?”

Devon finally turns her eyes toward the woman at the door.

The woman steps out of the shadow. Devon can see her face and hair, one long braid that slips down her slender back to brush her waist. ”Sorry I had to wake you,” the woman says. ”I know it's been a long, hard day. You must be exhausted.” She twists to kick a jam under the door so it stays open, then carries a folding chair into the room, placing it the perfect distance from Devon-not too close, but not far away either. She rests her hands on the back of the chair and smiles, her eyes intent on Devon's face.

Devon likes the way this woman is dressed. Dark straight skirt that hits her ankles, three-quarter-sleeved tee, sports watch, hemp trail mocs. And that braid. Earthy, yet neat.

The woman is older than she seems; her hair is almost entirely gray.

”May I sit down, Devon?”

Devon scoots backward until her back hits the wall behind her. She pulls her legs into her chest. The front of her jumpsuit is stiff from the dried milk. Always leaking, then drying, and leaking again. She can smell it, too. An organic sort of sourness.

Finally Devon nods, Yes.

The woman sits, her hands folded loosely on her lap, and watches Devon with quiet eyes.

”I'm a doctor who works with the residents at Remann Hall,” the woman starts. ”A psychiatrist. And I'm here to talk with you for a few minutes and ask you some questions.”

Devon stares at her knees.

”Devon, I know what happened. Why you're in Remann Hall.” Devon glances sharply at the woman. Her breath comes quick and fast.

”I know, for instance, that you recently had a baby, and that the baby was found in a garbage can behind your apartment.”

Devon hugs her legs closer, hides her face in her knees. If these things are true, why is her mind so blank? The pain, yes-she can remember that. But . . . the other . . . IT . . . She's s.h.i.+very and sick to her stomach.

”And I suspect, Devon, that you are not feeling very good about yourself at the moment.” She pauses. ”That's why I'm here. That's why it's important that you try to talk to me now. About your feelings. About what you're thinking.”

The woman waits a moment. Devon can feel her eyes on her, observing the bent head, the rigid shoulders, the long straight hair spread across her s.h.i.+ns like a gauzy fan.

”There are many reasons why people do things like put their babies in garbage cans. The purpose of this visit is not to speculate on why you did that, or to determine your guilt or innocence. I'm not the police.”

Devon holds herself very still. If she holds still, barely breathes, maybe the woman will leave.

”I'm simply here today to make sure that you're not going to do something to harm yourself. Do you think you can talk to me about that, Devon?”

Devon and the woman sit in silence. The woman s.h.i.+fts in her seat. The folding chair squeaks. Devon's pulse thumps across her temples.

The woman will not leave.

Devon feels the adrenaline in her chest, the pumping of her heart. It's the feeling of being in the goal when the striker gets a breakaway and is sprinting toward her with the ball. It's just between the two of them-a battle of skill and decision, 1 v 1. The perfect shot or the perfect save. She waits. On her toes, her body loose. Her arms out to the side, her palms facing out and ready, the net open behind her. Still she waits. Patient for that striker's touch. And then she goes, springing out of the box, cutting off the angle, diving for the ball, solid and real between her gloves.