SOFIA
The dingy room was dark, dusty, and smelled of rotten food and blood everywhere. Our time in Texas should have been a way for me to become more than a pretty face, and I was now in handcuffs at the police station about my costar. The door opened, and the same cop from earlier walked in with a smile on his face. He sat in the chair in front of me, crossed his legs, and lit a cigarette.
“You smoke?”
“No,” I muttered.
“Terrible habit.” He chortled.
“When can I go?”
He flipped the file open and pushed a photo across the table. I leaned over and saw a picture of Shamar dead in the backseat of a car.
“What happened to him?”
He laughed, took the photo back, and shoved the photo of me and Shamar hugging at the valet station in my face.
“Come on, do us both a favor and tell the truth
