How long are they going to keep me tied up in here, I wonder for the umpteenth time. My wrists are handcuffed to a bar on top of a table; the chain connecting the circlets runs around the bar. The metal chair I'm sitting on doesn't add to my comfort. I'm not sure how many hours I've been in here, but my rear is getting sore.
I hadn't resisted when the gun-toting officers had arrested me, but the way they'd reacted makes me think they believe me to be some sort of monster. They'd read me my Miranda rights, but otherwise haven't said more than two words to me.
The big metal door on my right finally opens, and a very plain looking woman dressed sharply in a dark suit steps through. Her dark brown, nearly black hair is tied back tightly into a ponytail and her severe brown eyes seem to penetrate me to the very soul.
