“Here I am.”
I reach out, squeeze his hand.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Telling me that.”
He shrugs, and smiles.
“Your turn.”
I smile back.
“Not tonight. Later. Maybe when you buy me that cup of coffee.”
“Wait”—his face all at once serious—“I thought you were buying me coffee.”
At first I smile, and then I laugh, and it feels good because I don’t remember the last time I laughed like this, a genuine, pure laugh.
I squeeze Erik’s hand again, and I pull him toward me. He’s stronger than me, but he lets me pull him, falling back down onto the bed so he’s on his side, his head on the pillow, staring back at me.
I whisper, “Stay.”
He watches me for another moment, and then he leans forward, kisses me on the lips. It’s not a short kiss, and it’s not a long kiss, but it’s a kiss I don’t think I’ll ever forget. Because he doesn’t say anything afterward, and neither do I. He just lies there, and so do I, and for the first time I don’t think about my past life or the people I’ve killed or even the two men I killed tonight. All I think about is Erik, being alone with him in this bed, and it’s enough to make me feel something I haven’t felt in a very long time.
Safe.
Eighteen
The light trickling in from the part in the curtain has changed.
It’s pouring in now, the light much stronger, the sun having started to rise an hour or so ago.
I’ve just opened my eyes and find Erik still lying beside me in bed. I’m not sure whether or not this should surprise me. I can’t remember the last time I woke up with somebody in my bed.
Erik’s still asleep. Lying on his side, facing me. Snoring quietly.
Part of me wants to lean over, wake him with a kiss, but another part wants to let him sleep. He’s working later today and needs all the rest he can get. Me, I’m probably going to head to work too, but that will be much later tonight. I’ll need to give Reggie a call, tell him I’m feeling better. Hope that he isn’t pissed and decides to fire me.
I slip out of bed, completely naked. After all, I’d answered the door last night in only my towel. It sounds sexier than it really is. If I’d known where the night would eventually lead, I would have spent a few extra minutes in the shower to shave my legs.
As I’m dressing, Erik yawns as he stirs awake.
“What time is it?”
I pull a T-shirt over my head, and glance at his watch on the nightstand.
“Almost eight o’clock.”
His head still on the pillow, he squints up at me.
“Do you have any coffee?”
I don’t. I don’t even have a coffee maker or one of those Keurig machines, but for some reason I think that’ll make me seem weird—normal adults at least have a coffee maker, right?—and so I shrug.
“Maybe. Let me check.”
Yawning, he murmurs something about giving him five more minutes and turns himself over so his back is to me.
I leave him to his five minutes and head for the kitchen. I don’t bother checking the fridge or cabinets. I’ve got almost nothing to eat or drink, and I’m not sure yet how I’ll explain it to Erik.
Maybe inviting him in last night was a mistake. Instead of looping my finger on his belt and pulling him forward, I should have pressed my hand against his chest and pushed him back toward his apartment. He hadn’t asked many questions last night, but he will eventually. Especially if this becomes more serious. If we do end up getting a cup of coffee. Last night, I had been so sure that was what I wanted—an actual relationship, somebody to care for, to love—but now I’m not so sure. Because I won’t be able to be completely honest with him. I’ll always be keeping secrets. And you can’t have a solid relationship without trust, right? I’m pretty sure I once saw that on a Dr. Phil episode.
The silence in the kitchen is deeper than normal. Typically I hear my neighbor’s TV. But this morning the TV’s off, and so the silence is thick, and beyond the silence—somewhere outside—I can just make out a few car doors shutting.
I cross over to the window, peek out through the slit in the curtain.
The first thing that catches my eye is the red flashing lights. A second later I take in the three police cars parked out on the street, men in Kevlar vests quickly dispersing as they move into position.
By one of the cars, surrounded by a handful of cops, Sheriff Gilbert—a man I’ve never met, have only seen pictures of in the local newspaper—motions at the apartment building.
Points right at my window.
I step away, suddenly holding my breath. Did they see me? I don’t think so. Even if they did, it doesn’t matter anyway. What matters is that there isn’t much time.
I close my eyes, focus on the silence.
The soft patter of boots on the macadam outside nearing the building. The men being as quiet as they can, but my ears are attuned to certain noises, like the flick of somebody undoing the safety on his pistol. Soon they’ll enter through the door downstairs, start to creep up the steps.
There’s only one exit from the second floor, excluding going out the window. The stairwell will be tightly covered. The men will be up here in less than a minute.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could I be so stupid? Maybe at the time I didn’t think I would ever be in any need to escape my apartment, but now here I am.
I hurry into the kitchen. Pull open the drawer with the pistols and the knife. I pivot toward the table, knock the Imodium A-D and toilet paper roll to the floor, and then set the weapons down. Ejecting the magazines from each pistol, setting them on the tabletop, racking the slides to cough out a round, and laying all of the pieces on the table next to the knife.
I hesitate a beat, listening to the silence.
Was that a creak down at the end of the hallway?
Maybe only thirty seconds.
I rush into the bedroom to find Erik still on his side, facing the window.
“Get up.”
He grunts, mumbles something about another five minutes.
I tear open the closet door, reach up to the top and push the pillows aside and pull down the Mossberg. Even though it’s not loaded—the box of shells is on the shelf—I pump it once as I turn and aim it at Erik.
As a Marine and cop, Erik knows the sound of an engaged shotgun anywhere. He’s on his feet in an instant, popping up from the bed.
“What the fuck?”
I keep the shotgun aimed.
“I need you to come into the living room. Right now.”
He stands there in his boxer shorts, appraising me, then starts to scan the room, looking for something he can use to defend himself.
I can’t hear the men coming up the steps, but I picture them. Their hands tightly wrapped around the grips of their pistols. Following the lead man down the hallway to my apartment door. They’ll be here any second. I’m not expecting a knock.
I say, “Stop fucking around. Move.”
I step back to give him space.
Erik hesitates a moment, and then complies. Moving past me, out of the bedroom and into the living room. He pauses when he sees the weapons spread out on the kitchen table.
Keeping his back to me, he says, “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Trying to keep you alive. Get down on your knees and place your hands behind your head.”
He turns his head, glares at me from the one eye.
“Fuck you.”
I take a step forward, keep the shotgun aimed at his back.
“Do it now.”
I’m worried that he won’t. That he’ll lunge for the knife on the kitchen table. Or one of the pistols, even though he can see the magazines have been ejected. I’m worried that he’ll do something stupid when those men burst through the door, and that he’ll get shot in the process. But I figure it’s better the men see us immediately
upon entering the apartment, not hidden back in the bedroom, where they might think we’ve barricaded ourselves with a cache of weapons.
Finally Erik obeys, lowering himself down onto his knees, reaching up and lacing his fingers on the back of his head.
In the hallway, the footsteps are nearing. We have maybe ten more seconds.
I lower the Mossberg and circle over to the other side of the living room, right next to the couch.
I get down on my knees, set the shotgun beside me, and lace my own fingers behind my head.
Erik stares at me, perplexed.
I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
A second later, the door is kicked open.
Nineteen
The Colton County Sheriff’s Office is located roughly forty-five minutes south of Alden. That’s where they take me, but they don’t put me in one of the holding cells. Instead, they stick me in one of the interview rooms—a plain bright room with a metal table and two metal chairs and a security camera positioned in the corner of the ceiling—and they shackle my wrists to a ring in the top of the table and leave me for an hour or two until the door opens again and Sheriff Gilbert steps inside.
He doesn’t speak as he shuts the door. Doesn’t even clear his throat as he glances at the security camera. He simply steps over to the table, pulls out the chair, and sits down. He has some documents in his hands—papers, photographs—and he sets them face down on the tabletop.
I’m wearing my sneakers but no socks. A pebble must have found its way into the right sneaker because it’s been bugging me the past hour, but there’s nothing I can do about it. They let me keep on the sweatpants and T-shirt, though of course they searched me before cuffing me and escorting me down the hallway toward the apartment building stairs.
Sheriff Gilbert says, “Who are you?”
He’s an older man in his late fifties, his white hair buzzed, his face tanned and worn. But he has kind eyes, which is maybe one of the reasons he keeps getting reelected as sheriff.
When I don’t answer, he shifts in his chair, clears his throat.
“We know your real name isn’t Jen Young. Well, at least we’re pretty sure that’s the case. Your ID looks legit, and you come up in the system, but I’ve got people doing research. This day and age, you can’t just step out of nowhere. There’s a social media footprint.”
Atticus gave me this identity. He has numerous resources at his disposal, and I’m pretty confident the ID has all the bases covered, but surely something will crack if they dig hard enough.
Sheriff Gilbert clears his throat again.
“You had a Mossberg 590A1 shotgun in your possession, along with a SIG Sauer P320 Nitron Compact and a SIG TACOPS 1911, not to mention a SOG tactical knife. I respect the Second Amendment as much as the next warm-blooded American, but that sure does seem a bit excessive for a girl your age.”
I doubt he’d say the same thing to a boy my age, but I don’t bother taking the bait.
The man shifts in his seat again, takes a breath.
“We also found a pinkie finger in your refrigerator. It looks like a woman’s. Judging by the fact it appears you have all your digits, I have to ask: whose pinkie finger is it?”
I say nothing.
Sheriff Gilbert’s eyes harden.
“To what extent is my deputy involved in what happened last night?”
Shit. They’re going to drag Erik into this. Not that I’m surprised, but I was hoping he might make it out of this unscathed. Despite the fact he was there when they raided my apartment, half-naked, on his knees with his hands behind his head.
I keep my gaze steady with the sheriff’s when I answer.
“What happened last night?”
The kindness in the man’s eyes fades.
“You know very well what happened last night. Two federal agents were murdered, and you were the one who murdered them.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sheriff Gilbert issues a frustrated grunt as he slides a finger under the documents and flips them over.
They’re not papers, I see, but photographs, blown up to 6 x 9 so that every detail can be seen. There are three of them, and he spreads them out on the table in front of me like he’s a blackjack dealer.
The sheriff taps the center photograph with his index finger.
“This is you, isn’t it?”
It is, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. No verbal response, nothing in my eyes.
He smiles, nodding to himself as he stares down at the photograph.
“Yeah, we got photographic evidence of you murdering those men. I ain’t no lawyer, but I’ve been doing this long enough to know you’re screwed.”
The center photograph shows me standing on the other side of the tractor, which means the camera must have been positioned above the side door. When the lights came on, I did a quick scan of the interior, but clearly I missed a camera hanging over the door. Unless the camera wasn’t meant to be easily seen.
The other two photographs show me standing over the ICE agents, Mulkey and Kyer. In each photograph, I’m holding the 1911. In each photograph, the men are dead.
None of the photographs show Eleanora.
The sheriff leans back in his seat, crosses his arms, and takes another deep breath.
“So here’s what’s gonna happen next. In the next hour, U.S. Marshals will arrive to take you into their custody. They’re gonna transport you down to San Antonio where there’s a federal judge waiting to arraign you.”
“Sheriff Gilbert.”
This catches him off guard for some reason, the way I casually say his name, and he frowns at me but doesn’t speak.
“Who provided you with these photographs?”
He doesn’t answer. Just sits there, studying me. Clearly not sure how to proceed.
I glance down at the center photograph again, the one that clearly shows my face. It’s almost too perfect. Obviously I’m being set up, but the question is by whom, and why.
“How many of these photographs did you receive?”
No answer.
“Did you receive them from the owner of the location in which these events supposedly took place?”
No answer.
“I’m sure by now you would have already spoken to the owner, so I guess my question is does he or she acknowledge having a security camera placed inside this building?”
Sheriff Gilbert still doesn’t answer. He keeps watching me, his lips tight.
“Say the owner doesn’t have a security camera inside this building, then how exactly were these photographs taken, and why?”
The kindness in the sheriff’s eyes has long since left for vacation. His jaw has tightened, too. His chair creaks as he leans forward to start collecting the photographs.
I ask, “When do I get my phone call?”
The hardness in his eyes snaps into a glare.
“You killed two federal agents. You don’t get a goddamned phone call.”
I should leave it there—let the man storm out of the room to catch his breath, cool off—but I don’t.
“So let me get this straight. You respect the Second Amendment, but not the Sixth? You know, it’s part of the Bill of Rights that guarantees a citizen a speedy trial, a fair jury, and a—”
Sheriff Gilbert slams his fist down on the table.
“You”—pointing at me now with his free hand, his face having gone red—“you murdered two federal agents in cold blood.”
I calmly keep my gaze steady with his.
“Allegedly.”
His jaw tightens again. His face has gone even redder. It looks like he’s ready to explode at me when there’s a knock at the door.
Like somebody’s just poked him with a pin, the sheriff starts to deflate. He glares at me for another moment before snatching up the photographs and pushing to his feet. He nearly tears the door off its hinges, lets it slam shut. A moment of silence outside, and then he shouts, “
What?” before he says something else I can’t make out and the door opens again. He doesn’t advance toward the table, though, and stays where he is, holding the door open.
“Your lawyer is here.”
His words drip with contempt.
I don’t make any reaction—no smile, no frown—because I don’t want to set him off any more than I already have. Plus … what lawyer? Obviously I’m entitled to one—so says the Founding Fathers who wrote the Bill of Rights—but I don’t have a lawyer, or even know a lawyer. I wanted a phone call so that I could call Atticus. I wouldn’t be able to speak to him, at least not right away. The only number he gave me is to a dry cleaners that doesn’t exist. Atticus said to call and leave a message if I’m ever in any trouble. And this most certainly seems like trouble. Not sure what all he can do for me, anyway—the photographs Sheriff Gilbert showed me are quite damning—but at least he’s somebody I can reach out to because … well, I don’t have anybody else.
The sheriff lets the door slam shut. For a minute I’m left in that deep silence, and then the door opens again.
And again I don’t make any reaction as I watch her enter the interview room. She’s wearing a black business suit. Modest heels. Full-rim rectangle eyeglasses. Her hair isn’t curly, not like it was yesterday, but long and straight.
As soon as the door closes, she moves directly to the camera in the corner, a briefcase in one hand, and leans up on her tiptoes to disconnect the power cord. Then Leila Simmons turns back to me, a small smile on her face.
“Hello, Holly.”
Twenty
She moves forward slowly, taking her time, her eyes never once leaving mine. She sets the briefcase on the table, pulls out the chair, and sits down.
“Cat got your tongue?”
When I don’t answer, she frowns thoughtfully.
“Such an odd expression, isn’t it? Just one of those sayings that doesn’t make sense when you think about it. I looked it up once, to find out where it came from. Supposedly it goes all the way back to the Middle Ages. They say witches’ cats would take a person’s speech so that the sighting could not be reported to the authorities. Or something along those lines. Seriously, Holly, say something. You’re starting to make me nervous.”
Holly Lin Box Set | Books 1-3 Page 55
