Chapter Thirty
“Good morning, Savannah, at the top of our news today, Savannah Police Department is investigating an incident in the exclusive neighborhood of Tudor Estates on Skidaway Island, in which multiple shots were fired. An unidentified African American male entered into the home of Harlan and Joslyn Montgomery with a gas can full of gasoline. Mr. Montgomery caught him pouring gas in the house, and when he tried to stop the intruder, he attacked Mr. Montgomery. Two shots were fired at the intruder, hitting him both times, but he survived and is currently in critical condition. A resident of Tudor Estates told us that in order for the intruder to have gotten into the community, someone would have had to sign him in, but only if he’s not a resident. Mr. Montgomery is known in the local Savannah community as the chief operating officer for the Department of Health. No charges have been filed to Mr. Montgomery or the intruder.”
I turn off the television and let out all the air I’d been holding during the report. I get up and start pacing. I’m considering my options. At best, they’re tenuous. I really don’t want to go to my parents’ house. My mom will ask way too many questions, and my dad will add another million onto it. To avoid lying to them, it’s best I stay away. My cousins can be trusted as long as there’s no reward involved. I know I’m greedy, but they have me beat. That’s why when I collected my lottery winnings, I hired a lawyer and did it anonymously. Those jokers will bleed me dry for however long it takes until I’m broke. I don’t even want to see Mac, much less ask her for help. So, she’s not an option at all. I have acquaintances, people I have gone to clubs with, but I wouldn’t trust them to paint my pinkie toe.
The only thing I can think of is to keep running. Cut all ties with family and friends and start over. But running will not get me far since my identification and lose cash are at the house. I have enough money to rent the room I’m in now for another two days, but that’s it. I have to find a way to get my identification and ATM card out of my house. I’ll be able to withdraw cash, and running will be easy.
But there’s a problem with getting to my house. One road in and the same road out, and there’s a gate guard that documents residents and makes visitors sign in. I could ask my dad to go to my house and get everything I need, but I would have to call the gate guard to get him through. The kicker to that is the police might have already made them aware to be on the lookout for me or whoever arrives at the gate to go to my house.
Or maybe, just maybe, I’m being overly paranoid. Whoever shot JD last night could not have possibly seen me. And if JD isn’t talking, then the cops don’t know anything about me. I’ll have to take a risk and go back home. I have to leave town, and I can’t do that without money, and I can’t get money without my identification.
Damn, I’m scared out of my mind.
Chapter Thirty-One
Before I reach Tudor Estates Boulevard, I can see a police officer talking to one of the guards on the entrance side of the gatehouse. My face and neck are on fire, and my hands are trembling. I’ve driven back all this way, hoping I’ll be able to get through the gate without a problem. Now, I have no hope, and I want to make a U-turn and speed out of there. But I need my identification and cash. I inhale deeply and let it all out, and I slowly make the turn.
The gate guard and a police officer approach my car. The police officer whips his arm around, motioning for me to let down the window.
I wave at the guard, who I’ve seen almost daily since I moved into the neighborhood.
“I know her,” he says to the police officer with a big smile. “How you doing, Miss Briggs?”
“Doing good,” I reply nervously. “How are you?”
Normally, I wouldn’t give the gate guards the time of day, but I’m so scared.
“I’m alright,” he answers, lifting the gate.
“What’s going on here?” Why didn’t I just drive through?
“Someone was shot,” the guard answers. “Two times at the Montgomery’s. Right on your street.”
“Oh, no,” I say, acting surprised. “Really?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the guard replies.
“Okay, well, I better get home.” I wave at them and drive in.
The closer I get to the house, the more I’m on alarm. I make the right turn onto Privilege Place. Three police cars are parked in front of Joslyn’s house. No one is standing outside. I turn into my driveway and park my car in front of the house right at the front door. The moment I’m out, I’m rushing to get inside. It took a little bit for me to unlock the door because my hands are shaking, but I make it in. I head straight for my bedroom. I grab my purse and rifle through it. My wallet is in there, my cell phone, and cash. I dump out the fine notifications. I grab my charger for the phone off the nightstand next, and I dash out of the house. I get into my car and start it up. Just as I’m pulling off, I realize I left the door wide open. I don’t have time to go back. It doesn’t matter, anyway.
I take my time driving out so I wouldn’t draw attention to myself. But when I’m beyond the gate and on the causeway, my foot is heavy on the gas. With every inch, every foot, every yard and mile I drive away from Tudor Estates, I feel more assured that I’m going to make it. Honestly, at this rate, I really have no doubts that I will.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Two choices, that’s what I have for airports. Hartsfield-Jackson is four hours away if traffic cooperates, and it rarely does. Half an hour to Savannah Hilton Head. I take the shortest distance.
I leave my car in long term parking. If I ever go back for it, I’m sure it’ll cost an arm and a leg to pay to get it out. Not going to worry about it. I head straight for the ticket counter. The terminal is crowded, lines are long, but that’s okay. Makes it easier to hide.
It takes thirty minutes before I get to an agent. I ask for the farthest destination that doesn’t require a passport. I’m given Anchorage, Alaska, and Honolulu, Hawaii. Of course, my instant choice is Hawaii. It isn’t cold. It doesn’t snow. There’s a beach, and I can wear a bikini all day, every day. The lady gives me the price, and I hand her my ATM card. Ticket bought, done deal. The flight leaves in two hours.
I head for security. My identification is checked. I take off my shoes, toss them in a bin with my purse, and I go through the scanner. I stand on the other end waiting for my purse to go through X-ray. The belt stops, which draws my attention to the woman staring at the monitor. She calls over another uniformed security officer, and he begins squinting at the screen. I look on the belt to make sure my purse isn’t just sitting in the mix of other people’s belongings. It isn’t. Now, I’m beginning to sweat. What is the damn hold up? The belt starts moving again, and a purse comes out. It’s not mine, and I’m beginning to worry. Guards corners a woman and asks her to stop out of line. They take her and her purse out of sight. I’m sweating and shaking.
My bin comes out next. I put on my shoes, shoulder my purse, and I rush out of there. By the time I reach my gate, the waiting area is full. There isn’t a place to sit, and it’s noisy. I don’t care. As long as I can get on this flight and get the hell out of Savannah.
As I’m impatiently waiting, I begin thinking about my parents. I’m leaving without saying good-bye to them. I can’t leave the state of Georgia, fly clear across the country and half of an entire ocean without saying good-bye. It’s bad enough I won’t be able to see their faces.
I take out my cell phone. My heart is aching because I’m going to miss them so much. No more going by their house, just to talk, or to have dinner, or just to see them. No more of that crazy billy goat that likes to use my truck for mountain climbing. Is this the consequences of my actions? Hell, I don’t even think it’s worth it now that I’m leaving town. It’s too late, anyway. What’s done is done, and there’s no way to undo it.
I call my dad.
He answers, “Gia? Is that you?”
“Of course,” I reply. That’s strange for him to say that. He knows my number. It shows up on his phone whenev
er I call. “Everything okay, Dad?”
“It’s fine. How…how about you? Are you alright?”
“Yeah.” I hesitate. This is so hard. “Dad, I’m sorry to be calling like this, but I have to tell you something.”
“O-okay.”
“I’m leaving…for good.”
“Leaving for good? Why?”
“Because it’s time.” I’ve lied so much. I’m fresh out.
“What are you talking about? It’s time for what?”
“I can’t really explain right now.” A baby starts wailing. I move away from the kid so I can hear my dad better.
“Are you going to come by the house? At least, let us see you before you leave.”
“I don’t have time.”
“Well, where in the world are you going?”
“I’ll call when I finally get there. Don’t worry.”
“You always tell me don’t worry, don’t worry. Well hell, child, I can’t help but to worry. You just up and leave. People just don’t up and leave.”
Now, I regret calling. “Give Mom my love.”
“Gia, I don’t understand what’s going on with you lately. That money is making you crazy. It ain’t worth it if it’s making you crazy.”
“Dad, the money is not making me crazy, okay?”
“Well, what sense does it make to up and leave and not come back? You bought a brand new house on Skidaway Island. What are you going to do with it?”
“You and Mom move in there,” I reply. “Just let-”
“Good morning passengers,” a woman’s voice blares over the intercom. “Flight 1744 going to Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport will begin boarding starting with first class at Gate 4 in twenty minutes. Please, have your tickets ready.”
“That’s my flight,” I say to my dad. “I have to go.”
“Gia, don’t go. Please, come to the house first.”
“I love you. I’ll call you soon.” I disconnect the call.
The tears burns my eyes, and my chest is hurting. I wish I could stay. I really wish I could, but the things I’ve done. I can’t deal with the consequences.
I wipe my face, sniff, and shake off the emotions. Honolulu, Hawaii, is going to be my new life. I can find a big Polynesian man, and we can lay out on the beach and play in the ocean. I’ve never seen the Pacific Ocean. I can’t wait to get there.
Another twenty minutes go by, and I’m in my window seat in first class. The large leather chair is comfortable and soft. My legs stretches out easily. I’m already feeling like a queen.
“What would you like to drink, ma’am?” the stewardess asks.
“Do you have pink champagne?”
“Of course,” she says with a pleased as punch smile.
Hell, I’m pleased as punch to be traveling in style. I lean my head back, close my eyes, and relax. This is what winning the lottery is about. Going to places never been to or seen before. The houses are great, but a beautiful house can be bought or built anywhere. There’s no place like Hawaii or the Bahamas or those other exotic places around the world. This is what I should have done when I first won. Packed up me and my parents and got onto the next plane heading for some exotic location, where no one can find us. We could have lived like royals. It’s not too late for my parents, though. I can get the dream started and send for them later.
“Your champagne.”
I open my eyes to reach for the glass, and I nearly faint when I see Detective Lucas Parker. He puts a hold on my arm that hurts like hell, and he yanks me out of my seat.
“Gia Briggs, you are under arrest for breaking and entering, property damage, and the attempted murder of the Montgomery family-”
“ATTEMPTED MURDER!” I try to whip around, but Detective Parker and another officer hold me right in place as I’m being cuffed. Detective Parker continues reading my rights as I’m marched right off the plane and paraded in front of the other travelers. I’m so mad I can whip all their asses just for looking at me. Like some of them ain’t never been arrested. I hold my head high and try to act like I’m the most innocent person in the world.
By the time I reach security, I’ve had some insights. My dad set me up. He told the cops where I was, or they might have been in his house, listening to our conversation. I can’t believe he’d give me up like that. No, no, no. I’m wrong. I didn’t tell him I was flying out, or maybe, I did. Wait, I did. I told him after the announcement was made, ‘that’s my flight.’ Shit! Me and my big ass mouth.
Detective Parker fold me into the back of the police car. I want to fight him, too, now that we make eye contact. He’s looking at me as he closes the door. A smirk is on his face. I should have never met his ass in that park. How could I’ve been so stupid? And look where I am. Exactly where he wants me: handcuffed, in the back of a police car, going to jail. Shit damn fire!
Chapter Thirty-Three
I’m sitting in an interrogation room, and I’m reminded of all the police shows my mom watched on television. Every single episode had a scene where a suspect is being questioned, and the room they’re in is the cleanest, most organized space in the entire so-called police station. There’s a square or rectangular table. The cement block walls are painted a drab gray with a one-way mirror, or is it a two-way mirror? Shit, I don’t know. Sometimes there’s a uniformed cop in with the suspect, thumbs hooked into his utility belt, and the officer is serious or pissed off as they watch the suspect, making sure they don’t escape or try to kill themselves.
The interrogation room I’m in looks like shit. It’s a small rectangular room with peeling dirty white paint on the walls. The table takes up most of the space. There’s three chairs, and all of them are metal with no cushion. An officer is with me, except she doesn’t have her thumbs hooked in her utility belt. She stands straight up with her hands behind her back, and sometimes she’ll look at me. I’ve been in this interrogation room for what feels like a year. It’s quiet. It’s cold. It’s a serious shithole, and I want out.
Detective Parker finally walks in along with another plain clothed officer. He has a yellow notepad, a brown folder, and a pen in his hands that he places down on the table. His partner, a woman, has a brown folder and a pen, as well. He drags the chair legs against the linoleum floor and sits down, facing me directly. The woman takes the chair on the short side of the table across from me. She’s a black woman with dark piercing brown eyes and a scowl that tells me she’s not up for games. Her hair is pulled tight and pinned into a fake pony-tail. Her suit is navy blue. She reminds me of my aunt, my dad’s sister. She doesn’t smile much, either.
“My name is Detective Jillian Rogers,” she begins. “I’m sure you remember Detective Parker. We have a few things we want to discuss with you. Let’s begin with Joshua Davis. Do you know him?”
“No,” I reply.
“Yes, you do. He was an exotic dancer, up until he met you.”
“Did he say he knew me?”
“Yes, he did,” she answers solidly.
“What else did he say, Detective?”
“He said enough to get a deal.”
I stare at Detective Rogers, trying to read if she’s lying. Her face is stone. Still, I don’t believe her. “He can talk even when he’s in critical condition in the hospital?”
She smiles as an answer. I take that as a yes.
“Whatever he said about me is a lie,” I remark. “I don’t know JD.”
“How do you know everyone calls him JD?”
Shit. Detective Rogers caught me in a lie, and there’s no way I can back out of it. From now on, I have to watch what I say.
She opens the brown folder, takes out two photographs, and slaps them on the table in front of me. One is a shot of me pouring gasoline in the hallway, and the other is JD facing Harlan Montgomery, who has a gun pointed at him. The memories of last night flood back instantly, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I don’t remember seeing a camera in that house, but then again, I wasn’t looking for one.
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Detective Rogers points to the picture that I’m in. “That’s you, Gia.” Then at the other one. “And that’s your boyfriend. Why were you two trying to burn that house down?”
I look away. Ain’t no way I’m answering.
“Okay, let’s change gears a little. How about I tell you how we tracked you down?”
Detective Rogers regains my attention again.
“We followed you from your house this morning. I told the gate guard and the officer to let you through when you showed up. Detective Parker didn’t think you’d be that stupid and go back home, but I knew you would. You can’t travel without your ID, your credit cards, or your money. It’s literally impossible nowadays. You had no choice but to go back home.”
I huff and roll my eyes. She thinks she’s so fuckin’ smart.
“So, getting back to my prior question,” she says. “Why were you trying to burn that house down?”
“It was JD’s idea, not mine. Ask him.”
“I got footage from your security system inside of JD’s apartment of you showing up and running off his side chick. Or was that girl his main chick and you the side chick?”
She’s getting on my fuckin’ nerves, and she knows it. I want to cuss her ass out, but I won’t do it. If there’s any chance of me getting out of here, then I better not go off.
“I found the gas station where you pumped the gas into two containers,” she says. “And you paid for the gas with your credit card.”
“So what? I was doing what he told me. I don’t even know why I’m listening to your yap, anyway. You know, I was a victim, too.” I’m talking out the side of my head, and I know it’s not going to get me out of trouble.
“You and JD poured gasoline on the first floor of that house. He poured it near the front door, the steps that lead to the second floor where the children were sleeping, and just outside the master bedroom on the first level. You poured it at the door that opens up to the garage and down the hallway. You two were going to set fire to the first floor so the family could not get out.”
Gia (Women of Privilege Book 1) Page 12
