Lost in Salvation

1. Little Miss Perfect

Lorelei

Numbness is a familiar feeling to me. It tends to linger in my life, constantly circling me in a cloud of never ending paralysis. Most of the time, I drown the feelings purposely, but now, it's the only emotion that my body will allow, (if you can even call this reaction an emotion).

And it's the only thing that encases my mind as I sit in the silence of my father's office. The room is dark but cast in a light glow from the roaring fireplace, and every wall holds a bookshelf. My dad's desk is made of a cherry oak and it's been here for as long as I can remember. Two velvet chairs are set opposite from him and I have taken my usual seat at the right one.

A detective sits to my left, legs crossed delicately over one another as she taps a pen aimlessly on the yellow notepad draped over her knee.

I can't remember her name even if she's said it about a hundred times.

The short, blonde hair that crops her face stands almost as still as she does. The woman wears a white blouse, paired with a grey pencil skirt and black slip ons. She's pretty, with high cheekbones, small facial features, manicured nails, and a perfected body language. You can even see the shiny FBI badge that sticks out from its pinned place at her waistband.

I want to strangle her.

"Where were the two of you last night?" Little Miss Perfect's voice is just as clipped as she looks.

Dad grumbles from his position behind his desk. "We've been over this," He does not sound pleased, and rightfully so. The round of questions has been coming for the past two days, taking blow after blow, and the worst part, they're extremely repetitive.

"Right, I'm just doing my job sir." She jots something else down and all I can think about is snapping that little pen in half as I glare daggers her way.

"Are we suspects or something, lady? My father and I have told you everything we know, which is close to nothing." My voice has a murderous edge to it that I couldn't manage to hide even if I tried.

"I understand Miss Phoenix, but these questions are a necessary evil." I don't miss the way that she specifically skips over the part where I suggested Dad and I being suspects.

I scoff. "Evil, yes. Necessary, I think not."

"Lori," My father warns, casting a glance my way with an arched brow, silently trying to stop my impending tirade. But the nickname usage has me pushing my chair back with enough force to send it flying across the room, wooden legs scraping against polished flooring.

"No, I'm over this shit! We haven't even gotten a second to breathe, Mom's body hasn't even gone cold." I nearly choke on the words. "And the little up tight cunt wants to assume that we had anything to do with it?!" My eyes don't miss the chance to bore a hole into the side of the detective's head.

"Abraham," She calls my father's name like a prayer, as if he could get her out of this.

"You have no right to call him by his first name," My voice turns cold, icy with a fear I intend to pierce straight through her heart.

Her head swivels away from my father's gaze, holding mine. And I've gotta admit, the woman's got some balls.

"I understand the way you must be feeling but there's no need for-"

I shoot a look at Dad. "Get her out of here before I do,"

And with that, my father ushers whatever her name was out of the room and hopefully far away from here, muttering an apology the whole way.

When the door clicks shut, I slink over to the makeshift bar and pour myself a tall glass, knocking the whisky back with a heavy gulp. The liquor burns its way down my throat, settling in my stomach with a fuzzy warmth. But I like it, it calms me like it usually does, enough that I pour another one.