3

This time the girl, (Byron was still calling her that in his mind. She had yet to become Janice Rosse) seemed nervous. As soon as the guard, a new one this time with a scar on his right cheek, sat her down and removed the handcuffs. She began to drum her fingers on the table between them, creating short, staccato beats that led to nothing. Byron waited a moment to speak. 

“Are you ready to begin, Janice?” He finally asked, setting up the tape recorder.  

“Oh.” she seemed a little surprised, wide blue eye blinking rapidly as they stared through him. “Yeah.”

“Is something bothering you?”

“No… well, yeah… It's just that I try not to think too much about what happened, and last week, after talking to you, it's sort of hard not to, you know?”

“I'm sorry. If you find these talks too distressing...”

“No, I want to tell someone. To a person that doesn't think I'm making it all up or I'm crazy. Somebody who wants to know what actually happened.”

“Well, that's what I'm here for. I do want to hear your side of things.” Byron said. He wasn't entirely convinced. In fact, he was pretty sure she was crazy, to put it in the vernacular, nuttier than a fruitcake, but he wasn't about to tell her that. 

This is going to be quite the book. He thought to himself.

“Mind if I start the recorder?” he asked, putting his finger on the record button. 

“No, go ahead. What do you want to ask me?” Janice had stopped tapping her fingers on the table, and now jiggling her knee in a way that was even more distracting.

“Well, you were telling me about your friends...”