I knew something was up when they found me at work.  Cops only usually go out of their way for me when i accidentally speed on the highway. I am actually a completely law-abiding citizen that aside.  I blame the music I listen to. It's much too enthusiastic to listen to at fifty miles per hour. One just gets too into it and just accidentally keeps pushing on the accelerator, shifting from third to fourth to fifth which only leaves me wishing I had a sixth gear. This is usually the moment I see those pretty blue lights in my rearview mirror.  Back when I was an amateur at getting pulled over, I would use the time hastily getting to the shoulder to come up with my excuse as they do inevitably ask. Now I've learned that telling the truth and smiling sweetly is a better response. 

I was in the process of putting entirely too much sugar into my bland coffee when a coworker at a nearby cubicle had outed me. "Here she is." I heard her say.  When I looked up I was met with two cops and my coworker awkwardly shrugging her shoulders letting me know she was just as confused as I was about to be.

"Are you Ms. Abraham?"  The less attractive, chubbier cop asked with an impatient tone. I assumed that if the situation called for it he would play the bad cop. After all, no one like being the less attractive especially by someone taller than them and he had to be irritated by it. Hopefully the situation wouldn't call for it. Which reminds me, what the hell is the situation?

I contemplated between answering the question or asking for a lawyer. Rather than respond I opened another packet of sugar and dumped it into my coffee. Out of the corner of my eye I saw chubs nudge the taller, more handsome cop. He was pointing out my name tag attached to the gray carpeting along my cubicle that read "Charlotte Abraham."

Damnit.

"Have a seat, Ms. Abraham."

I did as I was told. I am not sure when speeding had become this serious of an issue, but I had obviously pushed my luck. There comes a time when you just start to feel so invincible because you had gotten away with it too many times. You had cheated the system. Over and over again. It had began to feel like a high and for someone who was only getting older, didn't take drugs, have a severe problem with alcohol, and stopped shoplifting at thirteen, highs were pretty difficult to come by. But here it was.  Evidence in the form of two uniformed men that enough was enough.  I had sped so much and so fast that I was being personally taken in like a criminal, handed over to the justice system by the law themselves. If I were being honest, somewhere in my heart I always knew this day would come. The day I disappointed my parents with a jail sentence. When I was fifteen, I dreamt about it. But that was because I was angsty and listened to too much Social Distortion. When I was eighteen, I feared it.  That was a time period of a lot of Arcade FIre and the realization that I could be tried as an adult. Yet, at twenty-six, here I was facing it and I just felt a sense of calm. Okay, and maybe perhaps a bit of arrogance for all the tracking down of me they did.  Think about it.  The cameras  on the Cactus and Pineview intersection had to have caught me.  While the camera snapped it's picture, an alarm went off in the police station. They had decided to spend the extra money on the alarm because I was too much of a risk to be out there in the world just being dangerous. The officers gathered around watching and rewatching the tape (which will be used as evidence in the trial) to be sure that they had really and finally caught me.  They ran my plates, probably petitioned the judge for a warrant against me, and here we all are.

I looked at the two cops with mock envy, trying to feel what they much be feeling by bringing in the city's most (hell, perhaps even the country's most) notorious, dangerous, and quickest speeder. I imagined the speeches they'd give, proudly slapping each other on the back excitedly while the reporters snapped their pictures for the front page of the Times.. And oh shit, I'd have to give a speech as well. I should credit this all to my car as as not to be deemed too cocky. I would begin with my small stick shift Mazda, Molly, for being unassuming in both model and color.  And for also being a four cylinder saving me tons of money in gas which is incredibly important for a speeder in a recession.

"Ms. Abraham, we've come to talk to you about a Justin Timberlake. You've been affiliated with him in the past, is that right?" Good cop asked.  I chuckled.  Justin sold me out.  That makes sense.  Mostly because of the break up.  Boys hate it when you break up with them before they can break up with you first.  It's an ego thing. Of course this was going to force me to review my previous notion about how exactly my information was gotten, but i'd go over that in the jail cell. I was about to have a lot of time to think.

Instead of verbally answering, I chose to just nod.  I needed this time to hone my new persona.  In real life I talked too much and tripped over things a lot.  Seeing as how I was going to be a legitimate enemy of the law soon I needed something else to cement myself.  I was choosing to be discreet and mysterious.  'Just what exactly drives her to speed' they will ask and shrug my shoulders I will respond, therefore forcing them to guess I'm from a broken home and my daddy didn't love me and to act out I took to the road honing my now infamous skills.

"Well, he's been murdered and and we have reason to believe you're involved."

That's when my world came crashing down. I swear I literally heard glass shattering. Turns out the shattering was just a coffee mug being dropped on the concrete floor as I heard someone yell an apology and ask for towels, but nonetheless this was serious and unexpected. I was going to have to rework my new discreet and mysterious persona as I do not think that will come in handy in this case.

"I speed a lot." I responded like a dumbass.

Interrogation rooms suck.  Actually, I've only been in the one, this one, but I feel safe to assume they're all quite similar.  They're empty and uncomfortable and with bad lighting.  I suppose there isn't terribly too much of a budget for some sort of jail interior designer and no one wants their tax money spent on murder suspects.  I had been in the small room for half and hour already completely alone.  No one had come in or out even once. No good cop/bad cop schtick.  No offering of coffee or doughnuts.  I figured they were trying to make me sweat.  Maybe even trick me into paying some of those speeding tickets I haven't paid yet. I wasn't going down on that one without a fight.  Those tickets weren't even past due yet. 

I was on my seventeenth count of all the tiles on the floor when the door finally opened. In walked two slightly to moderately balding men holding a light stack of papers. They looked like they were doing their best to look intimidating and I felt a case of good cop/bad cop coming on. 

"Ms. Abraham, do you know why we came to your work and brought you here today?" The officer with a slightly fuller head of hair asked.  His name tag read Detective Jones.  I supposed that's what he would like to have been called regardless of the fact that he hadn't actually introduced himself.

"You need a better accountant?" They sighed collaboratively as if they didn't have the time, but quite honestly, neither did I.  I was my firm's best and only accountant and surely they had to be missing me.  It's really difficult, accounting is.  People think it's all just numbers and whatnot and, well, mostly it is, but numbers can be overwhelming.  There's a lot of counting involved.

"I'm really flattered for the extremely forward job offer, but I'm extremely happy where I'm at." I smirked before I continued.  "Unless, of course you want to start talking money."

"Is that why you killed Mr. Timberlake, Ms. Abraham?  For Money?"

Damnit. 

I was trying to be clever, not give them an opening.

"Our file here says you grew up in Anchorage, Alaska with three siblings to a single mother.  That must've been financially difficult for you guys." He was trying to get me to confess and when I didn't respond, he continued.

"Our file also says that you took to shoplifting at thirteen."

"I stole a pair of shoes once and when my mom found out, she made me return them.  How is that even on my record? Let me see that file." I held my hand out arrogantly as if I had any authority in this place. They both grinned at each other as if they had just got me to confess something. Which I suppose they did.  I had watched enough CSI episodes to know that you don't have a permanent file before the ago of 18. Stupid. They looked like they were now gaining enough confidence to coerce me into confessing to a murder. I hated them. I wish they would get murdered.

"Shoplifting is shoplifting, Ms. Abraham.  I'm sure that's how the public will feel when they find out about this."

I put my hand back in my lap and leaned back into the cool metal chair.  I needed to think. This was a very unwelcome change. I wasn't used to thinking much outside of work. In fact, I tried not to think much outside of work. Accounting is really hard. That is what I would tell any college student who decided to pick accounting because it seems easy enough and is a sure fire career in a recession. I would tell them that everything they heard about accounting was a lie. Okay, well, maybe not everything.  It's true that for most of the year you really have minimal work to do, and you can vacation basically any season except tax season, but it's still really hard. It's a lot of looking through receipts and that is tedious and mind boggling. Not all receipts look the same, you know? That will be the beginning of my speech, I have decided, and if that speech goes well, it will also be the title of my best-selling book. My best-selling book that will eventually make it on Oprah's list, which will then prompt an interview on her talk show. Which will then be the most watched episode of her show ever. Even more watched than that one episode about those mothers who took those prenatal vitamins in Europe and had babies born with flippers in place of arms. My ego knows no tact.

'How much of a promotion do you guys get for figuring out such a high profile case like this?" I finally asked.

"More than you can even wrap your mind around." Baldy announced, rubbing his hands together with greed.

"I'm an accountant!" I yelled. I just get the feeling they haven't been listening to me. It was beginning to get to me. I mean, I know accounting is a boring and even forgettable job, but it does serve a pretty damn important purpose. I can wrap my head around a lot of money. I do it every day. This world runs on money. I make that possible. 

"Yes, that's right. So you are. That's a pretty uninteresting job, you've got there." Baldy pointed out. I couldn't argue with him there, so I let him continue.

"You must've known exactly how much Mr. Timberlake was worth, and you must've known exactly how much you could smuggle from his account before you offed him."

I laughed. "Offed him? That's ridiculous." I waved my hand in front of my face to show how unaffected by them I really was.

"No, Mrs. Abraham, what's ridiculous is that we pulled you from you mediocre job in your mediocre life to tell you and accuse you of your billionaire superstar exboyfriend's death, and all you can talk about is accounting. That's ridiculous."

That's the first time in all of this mess I actually felt something other than annoyance. I tried to swallow, but I couldn't. I couldn't tell if I was even breathing anymore, but I figured I should try harder to find out. If they noticed I stopped breathing, they would take it as an attempt at suicide and surely book me for murder.

"I'm refuse to speak anymore until instructed from my attorney." I gave in. I didn't think it would come to this. I thought I would be let go and could return to my mediocre job and my mediocre life tomorrow, but this is turning out to be more invasive than i previously thought.

"As you wish." The detectives stood up and headed for the door, smiling at the thought of their giant bonuses.

"And accounting is really hard!" I yelled after them childishly. I wasn't even sure if they heard me, but it needed to be said