Whispers Turn

Hearing her response, the officer was left speechless, finding her difficult to deal with. 

Over there, another officer arrived with the man Sherilyn had injured. His wounds have been treated and bandaged. 

He got plunked down on a chair, his eyes shooting daggers at Sherilyn. “Officer, she’s a murderer! I’ll sue her and make her pay!” he yelled, voice echoing off the sterile walls. 

“Keep it down!” one cop barked. “You think you’re at a baseball game or something?” 

The cop turned to Sherilyn, his expression softening. “Fine, let’s hear your side. Why’d you have to make a scene?” 

Sherilyn was the picture of calm, her voice even. “He was getting handsy. I defended myself.” 

“Self–defense?” Motorcycle Guy leaped up, incredulous. “Look at her! Not a hair out of place on her head while I’m here, looking like I’ve gone ten rounds in a boxing ring! She claims I was all over her? Where’s the proof? What kind of lady carries a stone in her purse?” 

“Sit down! Be quiet! The officer wasn’t having any of it. “We’ll get to the bottom of it.” 

The cops huddled together, discussing pulling footage from the nearby security cameras. But the spot where the incident happened was off the beaten track, with no eyes in the sky there. 

As it turned out, Motorcycle Guy wasn’t a saint. He was a rap sheet with a stint in the lockup for some shady business. 

One cop nodded to the other. “It sounds like the girl’s telling the truth.” 

“But without hard evidence and with him denying everything, what can we do?” the other cop sighed. “Suggest a settlement, maybe?” 

y skull open!” “A settlement?” Motorcycle Guy’s head swiveled on his neck. “No way! She cracked my 

“Quiet!” The bang of a gavel–like hand on the table. “Fine, you want to take it to court? With your history and the booze on your breath tonight, good luck getting the judge on your side.” 

After hearing that, Motorcycle Guy’s bravado deflated. “Fine, fine. Let’s settle.” 

He looked at Sherilyn, raising his hand, fingers splayed. “But she must pay!” 

“Five thousand?” The officer turned to Sherilyn. “What do you say?” 

“No way,” Sherilyn was firm, shaking her head, her voice steady. “Not five thousand, not fifty cents, not five cents. I won’t pay a dime.” Motorcycle Guy was livid. “Bitch!” 

Sherilyn met his rage with unwavering resolve. “We’ll let the court decide. I trust in justice.” 

At that moment, a younger officer approached, whispering about Sherilyn’s phone ringing off the hook. 

“It must be her family,” he said. 

At the station, personal belongings, phones included, were collected upon arrival. No contact with the outside world unless permitted. Seeing Sherilyn’s determination, the officer nodded to the junior. “Next time it rings, answer it. Tell her family to come. Maybe they can sort this out.” 

The younger officer answered, “Will do, sir.” 

Back at the Golden Oak Manor, feeling helpless, Gilbert dialed Sherilyn’s number once again. Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.

This time, it connected. 

“Sherilyn!” he exclaimed with relief and frustration mingling in his voice. “Where have you been? It’s late. Why aren’t you home? 

“Hello, this is the Southern District Police Station. Sherilyn has broken a guy’s head. You’re family, aren’t you? We need you to come down here, please