Eileen rang the doorbell, and we waited for the lights to come on in the living room, and then a peek through the front door privacy window. Pam appeared dressed in a robe and slippers. She had a security code box on her wall, and her door had a row of extra locks. In her suburban haven, that was seen as overkill.
Once we stepped into her foyer and looked around, her home started telling me its story. She had decorative bars on the lower windows with noise alarms attached. Nothing a thief couldn’t get around, although there hadn’t been reports of thefts over here in years. But the Birks were going out of their way to stop someone from stealing. Not reporting thefts and all the precautions meant they cared about their thief. Probably because the thief was close to them and worked on the inside. I made a note to myself to check Bridget’s police record outside of the Birks’s home. I had told Eileen I knew Pam, however we still followed procedure when we spoke with her.
“Hi, Mrs. Birks?” Eileen asked.
“Yes. I’m Pam Birks.” Her eyes darted between us. She remembered me. “What’s going on, Nathan? What did Bridget do this time? Is she in the hospital? Jail?” Pam’s tone turned brusque. Her face morphed into a familiar scowl—one I’d seen on many parents when they’d reached their last leg with a wild kid.
“Can we sit down and talk?” I asked.
She sighed and stepped back, holding the door for us to cross inside in front of her.
Bridget had a beautiful, well-kept suburban house to call home, spacious, clean, nicely decorated rooms, polished furniture, and the faint smell of dinner still in the air. She had a wall of all her teams and trophies earned. Mr. Birks’s bowling award plaques were intermixed. The framed photos of Bridget over the mantel stopped at middle school, but Bridget’s age placed her close to a college graduate. I’d seen it before, parents clinging to the child they once had been.
“Do you want a drink of water?” Pam asked and wrung her hands, already anticipating bad news.
“No, thanks,” I told Pam and we sat with her on the couch.
“We’re sorry to inform you about an incident at Ro’s Warehouse tonight. A person reported Bridget unresponsive. Paramedics arrived and tried to revive her, but she passed away at the scene.” Eileen glanced my way.
I nodded at her in encouragement. There was never an easy way to break the bad news.
“That’s not possible. Bridget has turned her life around. She’s holding a job now . . .” Pam clutched her heart. The denial came first.
I handed Pam Bridget’s identification. “It’s true, Pam. The coroner will have more to show you, but I can confirm the person is Bridget. I’m really sorry. Tell us what we can do to help you.” I met her eyes directly, to give her the strength to start the life that comes after. Grief took over, and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
“Who did this to my baby?” Pam hiccupped.
Eileen put her hand on her back to comfort her. “We have leads and arrests.”
“You do?” Pam asked, blinking up at me.
I swallowed my curse at Eileen. We never make promises, especially early on, we couldn’t keep. “No, Pam. We don’t have all the information yet. We are—I am—sorry for your loss. Bridget was a sweet girl.”
The times I saw Bridget when she worked at the Better Buzz coffee shop, she’d seemed friendly and went out of her way to help anyone who came in.
Pam howled the cry of the wounded, her hands swiping the steady stream of tears.
We had to go, but I didn’t feel right leaving her alone. Eileen’s face was as grim as Pam’s. She took one of Pam’s hands and murmured soothing words of comfort to her. She didn’t want to leave yet either, so we sat on the couch and consoled her until she reached the space where she could start a plan: call her husband who, she told us, was out of town. She phoned her sister to come to support her in the physical identification at the morgue. We waited with her until her sister pulled in the driveway before making our way back to the precinct.
“I hope they throw the book at whoever gave her the drugs,” Eileen said once we were back in the patrol car.
“You don’t know enough about the cause of her death. We always wait for the coroner’s official report. You never make promises to people in a vulnerable state—”
She snorted. “I only tried to make Pam feel better that we were working on the case. We did arrest Shana Callahan.” She spat out her name.
“Then, we’ll make damn sure you’re on this case. When Pam expects all the answers and a conviction for crimes, you’ll be the one to deal with her wrath when she feels we failed her.”
Eileen went quiet after that. I hurt for Pam, but my gut said Shana wasn’t part of Bridget’s death. In the past, she enjoyed smoking pot and taking speed and ecstasy. The drugs in the plastic bag were hard-core: heroin, meth, and cocaine from what I checked at the scene. I couldn’t believe they were hers to sell, or had Shana turned into an addict?
I was nauseated, remembering her recklessness after Jackson died. Nothing seemed to reach her. I really tried, Jack.
In her mind, I probably gave up on her three years ago, but nothing could be further from the truth. I had tried to reach her, but it hadn’t only been for Jackson. It had been for me too. And I didn’t think that would ever change. Where are you, baby? I need to know you’re safe.
I’d try again because I needed answers. And there was no way I’d sleep without them.
Shana
Hours must have gone by. I dozed, then woke again, and finally came down from my high. My brain kicked into gear as things came into focus. My mind was stuck on repeat—replaying the cop pulling that purple brick from my bag like a white rabbit hat-trick. How the hell did she make that pack magically appear?
Somehow, I’d lost track of time, or I just hadn’t paid much attention. The strap hadn’t been broken when I placed my purse on my shoulder at the nightclub. Someone deliberately put the drugs inside my bag. Someone set me up?
I wouldn’t suspect Amber. She had no motive. Hell, she invited me out. Her family was wealthy, much like my own, and aside from posing as an aspiring influencer, she was lazy. She wouldn’t want to put the energy into dealing or getting arrested again. She had been to jail once before and came out behaving like the female version of Shawshank’s Andy Dufresne. But everyone in Sunnyville knew she lasted less than a day before her dad bailed her out. Or better yet, had my dad help her. Dad was good like that, helping his friends; too bad I wasn’t one of them.
They offered me a phone call, but I turned it down. There wasn’t anyone in Sunnyville who would help me. Amber would only tell me to call my parents, but I couldn’t. If I did, they’d think I’d sunk lower than they already thought I had—no money, no job, drugged up. No one but Nathan and his family would’ve come. And he had me arrested.
The officer took me and a few others they’d apprehended for processing.
“Stand here.” He pointed down at the feet outline on the rubber mat.
I saw my face in the reflection of the computer screen next to him. Somehow my makeup had stood the test of time, though my hair was a messy, tangled web from dancing. Not to mention I still had on the “I Make Pour Decisions” shirt from the bachelorette party. Damn, did I ever.
“Wipe that smile off your face,” the officer snapped. “A young woman died tonight.”
My eyes bugged out, and my lips formed an “O.”
Shit. What? “Who? Where? At the club?”
The flash of light from the camera blurred my vision. And now I probably looked like the crazed criminal ripe for media meme use like he apparently aimed for.
“Who are you talking about? At the club? Who died?”
I asked a couple of times before he finally glanced my way.
“Yeah, someone died. She wasn’t just someone either. She was a young girl, my daughter’s age. Not that people like you care about what you go out and sell.”
My brows furrowed. “I’m not a dealer . . . Officer Lyle.” I eyed
the name on his badge. I swallowed hard and touched my queasy stomach. How terrible.
“You wake up from your drug nap and now want me to listen to you? Just move on, princess. I’m sure Daddy big bucks will get you out once he’s done playing scared straight.”
I pushed my hair back and sighed. The officer confirmed what I suspected. My dad knew I was here and left me here. Pain seared my chest.
“Move it,” he barked.
I lifted my chin and folded my arms. Fuck you. “Where am I supposed to go?”
He pointed over to the waiting officer standing at the end of the row to join another line. After a few more women filed behind me, they had us walk through a couple of guarded doors and down a ramp to the entrance of the correctional center. We stopped in a cinder block hallway with noisy fluorescent lights. Each of us was to go through a metal detector and hand over everything we had on us.
My brows furrowed. “Correctional center? What about a lawyer and bail?” I asked, my voice raised.
I had rights. They must have checked my record history. Besides a few parking tickets, I had nothing else. The police had to let me go.
“There are no more bail hearings scheduled. The court’s on Monday. You’re here for the weekend,” the officer behind me answered.
“Two days? I have to stay here for two days, even though I’m innocent? What the hell?”
“Hear that, ladies? She says she’s innocent and we’re supposed to let her go,” the corrections officer mocked. “You turned down your phone call. Or have you changed your mind, Callahan?”
“Just call Dad and beg. He’ll get you out.” Jackson spoke inside my head.
“No, he won’t. Dad would pay for you, Jackson, but you wouldn’t have to plead.”
Whenever Jackson got in serious trouble, the police drove him home for Dad to handle him. Probably why he never knew his limits and took so many risks. He knew someone would get him out of it.
I hunched my shoulders and shook my head.
“What was that? Use your words,” he called out.
“I don’t want the call.” My voice was strained.
“Then stay quiet.”
After what seemed like hours, the time finally came for me to hand over my things—my heeled boots, socks, necklaces, rings, and a pack of sugarless mint gum in my pocket. They’d confiscated my purse with my cell phone when they arrested me.
The concrete floor was cold as I moved forward to another line. That time only two other women were there with me, their eyes glazed over.
“Hands against the wall and spread your legs,” the female corrections officer yelled out.
My hands shook as I placed them against the cold concrete. A foot pushed against my right foot. “I said, spread your legs.”
I clenched my jaw as the officer’s rough hands patted over my arms, shirt, pants.
We just went through the metal detectors. This is overkill.
I pursed my lips and folded my arms when the officer finished.
“Arms down,” she barked, pulling down my arm like I couldn’t do it myself. “Move.”
“Where?” I asked, my voice echoed off the walls.
She stepped close to me and glared. “Where I tell you to go. You do as you’re told here. I have no time for brats, and you’ll keep your voice at a normal speaking level. Now move it.”
She shoved my shoulder, and I stumbled forward, moving to a line before a bathroom.
The rank smell of urine, vomit, cleanser, and musk made my churning stomach lurch. And I hadn’t even gone inside the room yet. I shook all over and fought not to cry like the woman in front of me. It’s only for two days. I’ll survive.
She pointed to the bathroom for me to go inside.
“Take off all your clothes and put them in this bag,” she said.
My body shook as I fumbled, putting all the rest of my clothes in the plastic zip bag. How? How did this become my night? One call to Amber was all it took to end up here. No wonder my parents had given up on me. I would too.
The officer stepped behind me. “Hold your hands up above your head and tilted back.” Her fingernails grazed my scalp as she flicked my hair around. She then checked my ears, mouth. She lifted my bare breasts.
“There’s nothing there,” I mumbled.
“Don’t speak unless I ask you a question,” she said through gritted teeth.
Goosebumps broke across my skin as I shivered in the freezing room. I bit into my lip until I tasted blood as she hand-checked over every inch of my naked body.
When she was done, I moved to fold my arms and stopped myself.
“She learned fast,” the voice of the corrections officer from the hallway called, letting me know she was in the room.
“Bend over and spread your cheeks. We perform a cavity search for drugs.”
I shut my eyes tight and swallowed hard. My hands trembled as I bent my body at my waist and spread my ass cheeks. The gloved hand spread me wider. I swiped a teardrop from my cheek. Nothing had ever felt as degrading and dehumanizing as that.
The corrections officer from the hallway snorted. “Don’t feel chatty now? Glad you finally get it. You’re done, Callahan.”
I stared at my feet. The corrections officer was right. I had nothing to say nor ask because there was no one to listen to me. In truth, I wasn’t a person in here. When she turned on a shower, I shivered hard as the cold water sluiced down my body. I tried to scrub myself clean with the tiny complimentary-sized soaps you receive at hotels. Before the water turned warm, it stopped, and I took the old, thin towel from the metal hook next to me to dry myself. This isn’t right. I shouldn’t be here.
She handed me jail clothes—a used T-shirt that smelled like bleach, a thin blue jumpsuit, cotton underwear, a wireless bra, socks, and flip-flops that were too big for my feet. I couldn’t get them on fast enough . . . anything to hide my nakedness. Powerlessness. I’d never felt so defenseless. Vulnerable. Unprotected. And my time here had only just begun.
Yet another line, and I received a cup, a small towel, and the tiniest soap and toothbrush I’d ever seen. Adding a small pad and a wool blanket, the corrections officer ordered me to the next line leading to the cells. Would I have to share a cell with a bunch of people? Movie and television show jail scenes flooded my mind with horrors of life on the inside.
“Oh, we’re going to the suites. Good,” the woman in front of me said.
The suites were a single, tiny cell with a metal bench for my pad to make a bed, seatless toilet, and a sink. Nothing about that was good, and I didn’t know how I’d last another minute. In less than a day back in Sunnyville, I’d reached the absolute bottom.
I couldn’t stop feeling sorry for myself. If you do the crime, you do the time. However, I’d seen enough movies to know that wrongful convictions happened.
Yeah, I used, but had never even considered dealing. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. No one would believe me now, not even Nathan. He switched from looking happy to disgusted so fast I got whiplash. I thought he cared. But just like everyone else, he wanted the old Shadow, the girl who would do anything he and Jackson asked. He never understood that I couldn’t turn back into that girl. I’d tried, but I needed Jackson to exist. Being with Nathan after Jackson died only ever reminded me of everything I’d lost. I couldn’t bear it, so I had to leave to live, although I never said that to him.
We broke up and I left.
Hours came and went, and I lost track of the exact time. I slept on top of the sheet, shivered underneath it, and then back on top again. Everything made noise and kept me awake, and without sleep, my thoughts plagued me. What if I had to stay for years? Fear wound me up so tight, my pulse went into overdrive.
What if the police somehow thought I drugged the girl who died? Did she get the drugs from the pack in my bag?
Someone’s daughter died tonight, and I was worried about myself? Come on, Callahan. Surely you’re stronger than this?
But I wasn’t. My b
reathing turned hard and fast, like a panic attack.
But no one came.
I lifted my legs up on the bed and drew my knees to my chest. Tears fell, but I didn’t make a sound.
No one would care.
Jackson’s ghost hadn’t come yet, and honestly, I didn’t want him to, though I felt more alone than ever.
And no one would ever know.
A corrections officer appeared and tapped on the metal with her baton to gain my attention.
“You have a visitor.”
Nathan
When Eileen and I arrived back at the station, the precinct was abuzz with Bridget Birks’s death. Most of us had gym with Pam before she became a varsity coach at the high school.
Even though we arrested Shana with drugs, I’d still expected her dad to intervene. However, I overheard Detective Stetson complaining to Officer Ambrose about Shana on my way to my desk.
“The judge didn’t care when I told him his daughter would go to lockup. It was weird. He said, ‘She didn’t call me for help.’”
“He told you that?” Ambrose asked, his tone incredulous.
“Yeah, but you know how it is with these guys . . . power games. We’ll keep her in the suites for the weekend. By then, the ‘tough love’ lesson will be over, and he’ll have remembered she’s a Callahan.”
Judge Callahan decided to leave Shana in jail because she didn’t call him personally? Asshole. Who does that?
Knowing Shana, she could be stubborn at times, but back in the day, the police chief only needed to hear Jackson’s name and ordered him to be sent straight home. I agreed with Stetson; he left her because he wanted her punished. She had enough drugs on her for us to keep her in jail. My gut still said the drugs weren’t hers. I didn’t want them to be, and I didn’t like knowing she was alone.
My heart started pushing me like it’d done most of my life when it came to Shana. I couldn’t resist seeing her again. I couldn’t resist my need to protect her. Before settling at my desk, I got up and headed to the holding cells.
Command: An Everyday Heroes World Novel (The Everyday Heroes World) Page 3
