Dylan writhed to slip his wrists through the handcuffs. The skin chaffed to where he suspected he was drawing blood.
No one was listening to him. He needed to ensure Tallula was okay. If those bastards left her baking in the car, he'd be back in here on murder charges.
The thought of her hiding, unable to open the door, terrifies him. He was being stupid; he stole a car, he sped, he floored it when they found him, but she, she was just along for the ride. She didn't know any better. She did not know.
They could lock him up for the rest of his life and he'd be fine with that, as long as he knew she was safe and could live the rest of her life.
"Please," he begged. "Please, just check once more. She's there."
"Listen, honey," the police officer said. She barely looked at him. "We've checked for Tallula. No one was in the car with you."
"She was. I swear. She'll be hiding."
Her uniform was tight across the chest and her badge was reflecting the fluorescent lights, a tiny light show every time she breathed.
"And I swear, we searched the vehicle. Luckily for you, there weren't any drugs."
Drugs? Is she serious?
"Where is she?" he screamed. His head clipped the glass barrier and it, for a moment, relieved him of the worry, so he did it again, and again. And again.
He was whimpering now, pleading for Tallula to forgive him.
"Okay, okay," the woman behind the glass said as the police officer held him down on the ground. "I'll check personally for you."
Dylan felt the weight of the officer as he could get his mind in time with his breathing. She'll find her.
The woman came back, cradling Tallula in her palms.
"Is this her?"
"Yes, yes," Dylan said. "Oh, thank you. Thank you."
She brought her up so that he could kiss her shell. He could read the marks as if it were a braille book. It spoke of forgiveness.