The Third Degree

                                    

                                          
Jasmine

                          
"We'll be back in three days," says my dad, Elias Ortiz, spreading his arms for a hug, which I give him. We're all at the airport, where it's cold, noisy, and reasonably crowded.

                          
It's a quarter to midnight, and I'm seeing off my family, who are heading to Singapore; My husband, Damon, has already boarded the plane.
                          
When my mother, Dahlia Ortiz, takes a step toward me, we both stiffen, and her movements are hesitant, but I reluctantly initiate the hug, patting her back awkwardly. "I love you, mom."
                          
She hugs me tighter. "I love you, too, sweetie." As she releases me, she whispers, "I'm sorry."
                          
I glance at Quill, Trevor, and Oleander. "Come here, you dorks," I say laughingly while spreading my arms open. 

                          
Trevor, my baby brother, is the first to tackle me into a bear hug. Next is Quill, followed by Oleander. The four of us stay in a group hug for the longest time. I bite my lip, fighting back the tears threatening to spill from my violet eyes.
                          
I lift my hand above my head, waving them goodbye as they drag their suitcases toward their boarding gate.
                          
Feeling strangely awake, despite the clock on my phone announcing 12:10am, I decide to skip sleep and spend the next five hours outside; I take a leisure stroll under the moonlight, then visit a quaint cafe, where I purchase a cup of hot chocolate, feeling calmer than I've ever been since I married the worst man on earth.
                          
Afterward, I drop by a sports equipment store, where I rent a bicycle, which I ride around town, the fresh air on my face, the cold breeze blowing my short black hair behind me.
                          
 I feel.. free. But not truly. Not completely.

                          
I'm still wearing my lavender cardigan over my black blouse and pale jeans. For one split second, I consider tying the cardigan around my waist, but decide against it; The marks on my arms are still too visible.
                          
At six am, as the sun peeks above the bright blue building, casting a dramatic, yellow-orange glow, I park the bike in the bicycle-parking lot, leaning it against the silver railing before making my way toward the main entrance.
                          
I've never been to a police station before, but it's not far from what I've imagined: Drab blue walls, people behind desks, WANTED posters, MISSING posters, linoleum.
                          
I have an inkling of who texted me and why I'm here, but I want to be absolutely sure. I approach the main desk, where a bald man in blue uniform and shiny badge is engrossed in a newspaper.
                          
"Excuse me," I start cautiously. "My name is Jasmine S-"
                          
The man looks up, takes one glimpse of my face, then refocuses on his spreadsheet. "The ex-supermodel?" he mutters to himself, then, in a louder voice: "Ocampo! The Sandoval girl is here."
                          
The Sandoval Girl? The nerve of this- I open my mouth to retort, but am interrupted by the clear, strong voice of a 26-year-old woman in blue uniform striding toward me.
                          
Tall and slim, with pretty gray eyes and her black hair in a high and tight bun, she gives me a professional smile, the kind that means I-like-you-but-I'm-on-duty-right-now.
                          
"Can you believe this place?" she says in lieu of a hello as she pats my back twice, her own way of saying, 'Follow me.' "When I first got here, they said it was mandatory for female officers to wear skirts, but I'm not stupid. There's no such rule in this district. And besides, pursuit is easier in slacks." To underscore her point, she pats one side of her dark blue slacks.
                          
The headstrong detective leads me into a small room at the back and asks if I want coffee. I decline, afraid it would make my hands shake more badly than they already are.