RECLAIM MY HEART

RECLAIM MY HEART by Donna Fasano


CHAPTER ONE
Although it was after midnight when she pulled open the plate glass door, rows of fluorescent bulbs lit up the police station as if it were noonday. The officer sitting behind the gun-metal gray desk cradled a telephone receiver between his shoulder and ear while he two-finger tapped a computer keyboard that was so old the letters had worn off the most-used keys, leaving them a shiny black.
“Hmm…?no record of him being picked up in our precinct, ma’am,” the officer informed the person on the other end of the line. “Not tonight, ma’am.” Then he murmured, “You’re welcome.” He hung up the phone, slid several papers from the tray of a nearby printer, slapped them into a manila folder, and dropped the whole works into a white plastic bin, all in one fluid motion.
The officer’s gaze met Tyne’s, but before she could get out a single word, the phone rang and he lifted his index finger. He chatted briefly, transferred the call, then glanced up at her again.
Her heart thudded. “My name is Tyne—”
The telephone jangled and the officer cut her off again, this time with an upraised palm as if he were directing traffic at a busy intersection. Tyne’s mouth flattened as she watched him tap, talk, sort, drop, and she wrestled down the urge to snatch the papers from his hand to get his attention.
The caller’s problem sounded complicated, and as the seconds ticked away, Tyne’s fingers curled deeper into her palms. Her attention strayed from the officer behind the desk to the dingy station lobby. A woman entered from a side door, her expression weary, the skirt of her gray suit creased across the thighs. She offered a vague nod as she passed by, and Tyne turned to watch her disappear down the hallway. A man slouched on the bench at the far side of the room.
The unmistakable clunk of the phone receiver hitting its cradle had Tyne spinning to face the officer, but the damn ring sounded again. He shrugged as he snatched it up.
This time, she took a step closer to him. Her thighs an inch from the edge of the desk, her hands clenched into fists, her shoulders knotted as she waited, her eyes steadily fixed on him. When he hung up this time, she placed her fingertips on his desk in an attempt to pin down his attention.
“I’m Tyne Whitlock,” she rushed, fearing another interruption. “I received a call about my son, Zach Whitlock. I’m here to pick him up.”
He turned to the monitor and began pecking at the keys. “Whitlock, you said? With an H?”
“Yes. Zachary. Whitlock.” She emphasized the H so strongly it came out as a whistle. “Can you tell me what happened?” She inched even closer, blood whooshing through her veins making her feel lightheaded. Or maybe it was just stress. “Is my son okay? Is he hurt? The officer who called didn’t say much. Just told me Zach had been picked up and that I should come.”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know, ma’am. Take a seat.” He gestured to somewhere behind her, his eyes never wavering from the screen in front of him as he reached for the phone. “I’ll call the arresting officer—”
“Zach’s been arrested?”
“Picked up. Arrested. Those are interchangeable for us. I apologize ich.f the situation wasn’t made clear.”
Heat flushed her body and sweat prickled the back of her neck. “There must be a mistake. My son wouldn’t do anything—” The rest of the sentence died in her throat when she realized that Zach had been doing a lot of unexpected things lately.
Life was hard enough all on its own; it only took one stupid mistake to screw up everything. She knew that first hand. “He’s only fifteen. Is arresting minors even legal?” She couldn’t fathom why such an asinine question had entered her head. She watched the evening news.
The officer nearly succeeded in answering her with a straight face. “Ma’am, we arrest anyone who breaks the law. We picked up a seven year old today who took a handgun to the playground. He says a friend—a friend—called him a toad face.” He shook his head as he reached for more papers in the printer tray, muttering, “I wouldn’t want to be that kid’s enemy.”
Tyne flinched when the phone rang.
“Just take a seat. Someone will come for you.” His curt tone held a clear dismissal.
She turned, her knees weak. The space between her and the benches lining the back wall seemed an interminable void. She took a couple of shuffling steps across the black and white industrial tile worn thin in places by high traffic, scuffed and nicked and stained in others. Strange, the things you notice when your mind is on overload. The hollowness yawning inside her made her feel cast aside and helpless, as if she—and Zach—weren’t worth anyone’s immediate attention. And she still didn’t know what the hell had happened with her son.
The man she’d noticed just moments earlier studied her with bleary eyes. The alcohol fumes billowing from him were nearly visible. As was his acrid scent. He offered a slack grin and attempted to rise, but the handcuffs securing him to the arm of the bench prevented him from standing fully erect. Bent at the hips, he swayed dangerously on his feet.
“Charlie, sit!” the officer barked. “Don’t make me come over there.”
Dutifully, the drunk followed orders, his watery, defeated gaze sliding to the floor.
She eased herself down on the corner of the empty bench, as far from Charlie as she could get. Tyne couldn’t believe this was happening. Couldn’t believe she was actually in a Philadelphia police station. Couldn’t believe that her son had been arrested.