The security cameras followed the cruisers through the razor wire gate into the well-lit lot of the county lock-up and police station. Pat waited for Mike to get Harmony past the metal detector, the preliminary searches, and into the holding room before bringing Brea in. Harmony was silent, unshaken, cuffed and defiant. Brea wondered how she could be so strong when she, the innocent one, was scared shitless. The police station was one big room with several plainly furnished offices on the outskirts; one of which belonged to her Uncle Jim. The main room was full of enough late-night drunks, addicts, and domestic abuse victims to keep the several armed officers transporting combatant collars busy. Brea covered her nose when she got a whiff of the homeless man being brought in behind her. Pat did, too. “God, you’re ripe,” said the arresting officer, a newbie whose name she didn’t know. The homeless man spat at the officer and the young man, lacking experience and patience, yoked him up.
