Just Another Missing Person

by Gillian McAllister

Cut Julia, and she bleeds curiosity for those she cares about, which is everyone.

There are things you don’t just know because you’re police: you know them because you’re a woman.

Did she know, then, that these would be her final moments in the before?

They’re all tea drinkers. I recently suggested once again that we buy a coffee machine, and they acted as if I had said I wanted to take a shit in the kettle.

used by criminals and people whose lives are in suspended animation sits in the corner. Benches with holes in the back like colanders. The surroundings add to the chaos. If you don’t already think you’re fucked, having to sit on a bench nailed to the floor will only add to the vibe,

How can you be here, concrete, in my hands, in my wallet, but nowhere else?

Weather that doesn’t know what to do with itself, like us.

Poor kid, thrown into the legal system with no idea he’s up against a corrupt police officer.

She wonders where this will end, truly. In his trial—or hers?

“No.” You don’t move as you say this. And that isn’t the worst part, your lie. You know what is? It’s that—if I didn’t know—I wouldn’t be able to tell you were lying. There is no clue whatsoever. You hold his gaze, your body still, face relaxed. Goose bumps break out across my back, a chilled, feverish, panicky feeling setting in across my body. And so, after the meeting, I go home, and I begin to search your room.

I stare at the smoke, trying to read it like tea leaves,