Another Way Out by Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz (Appeared in the January 2010 Issue) She was taking too much time in the restroom and it was pissing him off. Detective Scott glanced at his watch. She’d been in there ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Trying to stall, he thought. Not gonna work. I’ll wait as long as you take, Little Miss Shanna Douglas. He gave her another five minutes. He signaled for the waitress and when she came over, he asked if there was another way out. She said no—no window in the restrooms, and the only other out, by way of the kitchen’s back door. He’d been watching the front. No one had come in or gone out. “Thanks,” he told her, both for the information and for the refill of coffee she was pouring into his cup. He’d wait Shanna out, though he really needed to get her out of there. It was against protocol to take a found runaway anywhere but directly to the station. She’d asked, begged, for something to eat. His better judgment said to have a sandwich or pizza delivered to the station, but he’d stopped at a diner, her in tow. “Bing,” he said under his breath when another five minutes had passed. “Time to go home.” She had not liked the idea of going home. “What if I’m safer on the street?” she’d asked him. He’d shook his head. He’d seen what a few years on the street could do to a girl; he told her she didn’t want that. She repeated her question. Something in her voice caught the detective. “You tell me, or someone else, what’s going on and it’ll be looked into,” he said. She laughed. “Looked into,” she repeated, mimicking his voice. “That’s the problem; things are looked into,” she told him. Det. Scott was about to say something when Shanna popped up from her seat and announced she had to go to the restroom. He started to stand. She told him she was just going to the restroom. She held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.” “Make it quick,” he’d told her, but she wasn’t. “Come on,” he hissed now, willing her to come out so he could turn her in and finish the job. He was feeling like he’d been played; she hadn’t even touched that burger. He was thankful there wasn’t a lunch crowd. Only him, an elderly couple and Shanna Douglas in the restroom. He heaved a sigh. Damn it. No one in charge might necessarily ever know but they could find out. He didn’t need that. He called the waitress over, requested the check and asked her to go into the restroom and tell Shanna to get out. He was pulling out his wallet when a scream punctuated the diner. Det. Scott rushed from his seat, pushed past the waitress into the restroom to find the disarrayed objects: the one shoe propped on the sink, the broken mirror, the jagged pieces of glass, the girl—a gorged arm over her head—the blood spilling into her blonde hair.
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