Free Girl of Rage by Charles Sheehan-Miles

Richard Thompson wasn’t even her father. Then the ugly stares, the disinterest, the bitterness of her exile all made sense. Andrea was the evidence of her mother’s infidelity. Richard was a bastard, but he was a bastard for a reason. Because of their mother.
    Andrea started at a knock on the door. She sat up straight then grabbed for the long serrated kitchen knife Dylan had left with her. She didn’t answer the door.
    Another knock.
    She tensed. Dylan was supposed to identify himself by voice if he came. So who the hell was at the door?
    She slipped off the bed where she’d been sitting, and moved in a silent crouch to the door. The blackout curtains were ineffective, weak light slipping around them in all directions, but they were enough to block her view of the outside. She slowly came to her feet and put her eye to the peephole in the door.
    She froze. Outside, standing in the oppressively dim light, was the hotel manager or desk clerk, a grizzled Indian or Pakistani with nearly white hair and beard. Next to the manager was a bored looking police officer. The hotel manager said something in words too quick to understand, and the cop said, “No, don’t open it. What about the next one? That’s where you said the noise was from?”
    Shit! Andrea thought quickly. Someone, maybe the hotel manager, had called the cops reporting suspicious activity? Maybe reporting whatever was going on next door?
    Did they think she was somehow involved in that?
    A moment later she heard the thumping stop next door. A loud voice, the words unclear, then she heard the words clearly. “Open up. Police.”
    Shit. Shit. Shit. Andrea leaned close to the blackout curtain. Careful to not move it, she put her eye near the gap between the wall and the curtain, trying to get a view of whatever was happening next door.
    Movement. Then a loud noise, and the door next door slammed. The cop moved into the room, and the manager stood outside. Loud voices. Shouting. A male voice, the john maybe, begging.
    A moment later she saw a man come running out. Grey suit, his shirttail hanging out. He walked past the hotel manager, looked back, and then ran.
    The door slammed. Andrea started to back away from the blackout curtain, but then she noticed that the manager hadn’t moved. What the hell was going on? He stood, his back to the door next door, hands clasped behind his back. His right leg bounced a little. He swayed on the balls of his feet, turning slightly toward Andrea’s room. She jerked back from the opening.
    Then she realized exactly what was going on. Because she heard a female voice cry out. Loud. Someone had called the cops, and this was the result. Whoever that poor woman was next door, the cop had decided to exploit her too, instead of helping.
    The rage that flooded through Andrea right then was nearly uncontrollable. She sank down, resting on her haunches, shaking with anger. She squeezed the knife in her hands tighter, wanting nothing more than to run next door and use it on the cop who was abusing his position.
    Jesus Christ, what could she do about it?
    And what would happen if Dylan came back right now? Would he blow his temper? Go next door? Would he get them caught?
    Or was Dylan out drinking somewhere? She didn’t know much at all about him, except that he was a war veteran. Sarah had said he was a reformed alcoholic who had started drinking again. Andrea knew about addicts and alcoholics, and the one thing she knew was they couldn’t be trusted if they weren’t in some kind of serious recovery.
    The noise started again, the headboard of the flimsy bed banging into the flimsy wall of the crappy room next door, and Andrea realized that she had no choice.
    None.
    The bathroom had a small window that she could climb out. She stuffed her few things into her plastic shopping bag, then walked to the phone. She closed her eyes, then picked it up and dialed 9 for an outside line. Then 911.
    “Prince George’s County 911, what’s