Once again, I encourage you all to read the previous parts... They are kind of important.
Ron Stone continues, after the jump.
I had always hated the women that would cry to get out of everything. If a cop pulled them over, they would open the flood gates and, amazingly enough, no ticket. However, in that moment, when the cops turned there accusatory looks on me, when I could see the unspoken accusations of a prank call in their eyes, I couldn't help it. I sank down on the ratty old couch, with my face in my hands and cried hysterically. I could vaguely hear the cops stumbling over their words, and also Ashton pulling them aside, and talking to them quietly. I have no idea when the cops left, I only know that I felt the couch shift, and an arm placed around my shoulder.
Time passed, and Ashton spoke quietly, soothingly. At some point, the stress of the day must have won out, and I fell asleep, because the next thing I remember is waking up curled into a ball, with my head resting on Ashton's leg. I slowly sat up, and stretched. My movement must have woken Ashton up as well.
“Are you feeling better, Miss Stone?” He asked, his voice still heavy with sleep.
“What happened? Where did the cops go... and why is there no sign of that ape?” The questions seemed to spill forth from my mouth of their own volition.
He stood up slowly, and looked around. “This place is pretty empty, perhaps we can go back to my place and talk.”
I nodded mutely, and allowed myself to be lead back to his apartment. It looked so similar to my own, but his furniture was nicer, and there was a feeling of hominess that my apartment never really had. He disappeared into the kitchen after settling me into a chair, and came back a short while later with two glasses of water. We drank in silence for a few moments, and finally, he set his glass down and looked at me.
“So, the cops were prepared to take you in, they were not the least bit happy that they had been pranked. When you started crying, they didn't know what to do. The short one even started to fumble over the Miranda Rights. I took them out in the hall, and told them about what happened to you earlier in the day, and the two of them seemed to accept the idea that you were stressed out, and had had a bad dream.” He paused and looked down at his hands. “Honestly, if I hadn't been there, and seen that guy... I'd probably think you were crazy, too.”
I was about to reply, when I was interrupted by the sound of the dead man's phone ringing in my purse.