Short story ...
The drive to Meg's apartment took less than six minutes. Along the way, the cop attempted idle chit-chat but Meg didn't say a word. She kept her head turned away, staring out the window, trying to conceal the turmoil raging within her. But the detective read her like a book.
The traffic light, at the corner of Platt Street and South Boulevard, turned red. Across the intersection she could see her second floor apartment. When the car stopped, she tried to open the door. It was locked.
"Not yet," the detective said, motioning for her to wait.
She waited. She just wanted to get out, to be alone, so she could think.
Finally the light changed. The detective's car crossed the intersection and pulled alongside the curb.
The cop addressed her one last time.
to be continued ....