Stepping out of the car, I looked at the police station. It started to feel familiar.
How many times had I been here?
I hurriedly stepped inside and turned to a certain location, where I had mostly found Clara.
What did she do this time?
At least she'd given them my number instead of Mom's. That alone felt like a small relief. The only problem was how much she had gotten hurt.
I spotted her almost immediately, and my brows furrowed.
Clara was sitting on a chair instead of a bench near the wall, as she always did. In her hand was a plastic bag of ice, pressing to her bruised left eye.
Her hand was already neatly wrapped in bandages, very neatly. I was sure her hand had gotten injured from her own punches.
What the fuck?
That made me pause. This was the first time an assailant received that kind of treatment.
And a chair, for God's sake.
