This isn’t serious, she said to herself. It’s…it’s pretty horrible, but it’s not serious. I mean I can get out of this any time I want, by telling the truth. It’s not like being falsely accused, and not being able to explain. It’s because I don’t want to explain. Just yet.
“This way,” said the sergeant, and she went with him out of the house and down the steps and along a path beside the house. It all looked so cozy, with shrubs and green grass. Behind the house stood a square cement building, whitewashed, like a garage. Only that it had barred windows.
“Is this—where I’m going?” she asked.
“County jail,” said he.
“Can I telephone to anybody?”
“One call,” said he.
“Can I make it now?”
“Yep,” he said. “Who’s it to?”
“Do I have to say?”
“Yep.”
“Can’t it be private?”
“Nope.”
“Then
