Page 7 of Saving Sophia

“Hold it right there.” A man grabbed my arm.

Goodbye, plucky heroine. Hello, expendable cocktail waitress number two.

* * *

I was halfway into the police car before I realized the man who seized my arm and dragged me away from the club was a cop. Relief mixed with confusion as we headed to the station. He escorted me into a grim interrogation room still completely clueless as to why I was there.

A uniformed officer stood guard by the door, silent, arms crossed, staring straight ahead like I wasn’t even in the room. The concrete walls were dark gray, with paint chips flaking off in several places. I stared at the eyeball-shaped security cameras in the corners, wondering who was watching me.

Was this how a murder investigation went down? Was I being handled as a witness? I was in a police station. I was safe. But could I tell them what I saw without stammering and sounding like a crazy person? Would they believe me? Would Mr. Roscoe go immediately to jail, or would he get out on bail? Would I have to testify in a court, in front of a judge and jury? My mind flipped through every crime show episode I’d ever watched again, trying to imagine what any of that would look like.

A man with dark hair, shorter on the sides and a thick scruff of beard came in, holding my bag in one hand, my ID in the other. “My name is Hayden Valero. I’m a detective,” he said before nodding briefly to the officer at the door.

“Hello,” I said. Was I supposed to shake his hand? I had no idea. I half-lifted my right hand up, then let it drop on the table, awkwardly patting the surface a few times.

I was off to a great start.

“Sophia Butler? Twenty-four years old? Is that true?” He read my ID then looked at me skeptically.

“Yes,” I said. It came out all squeaky, like a mouse. Should I start now and confess what I saw, or wait for him to question me?

Confess wasn’t right though. I hadn’t committed a crime. Why was I so scared and guilty? I held onto the edges of my chair, trying not to squirm with nerves.

“You work at Renaissance?” He tossed my bag down on the heavy laminated table, slightly out of my reach.

“Yes,” I said. Not quite as squeaky as before. I could get through this. “I’m just a waitress though,” I added, inwardly cringing at my words.

He sat down and pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket.

I squeezed my hands tighter on my chair.

“Ms. Butler, are you aware of any underage hiring going on there? Girls using fake ID’s? Does your boss check that sort of thing?”

“No … I mean, yes.” I took a breath and willed myself to calm down. Was that relevant to the murder?

“So, is it yes, or no?” He tapped his pen on his notebook.

“I mean … no, I don’t think so? They checked mine when I got hired.” Did my age matter as a witness? I couldn’t remember that coming up on any of the shows I’d watched.

“You sure?” the detective asked. “You don’t sound sure.”

“I’m … sure.” He was right, I didn’t sound sure.

What if he didn’t believe me? What if I told him everything, and he didn’t believe me, and then Mr. Roscoe didn’t go to jail, and he found me …

“—activity going on?” He stared at me, waiting on an answer.

“Umm? … What?”

Detective Valero sighed, tapping the pen against his notebook again.“Look, Ms. Butler, there is significant illegal activity going on at Renaissance. If you have information, I need you to speak up.”

Murder. Murder was illegal, for sure. Was this it? This was when I was supposed to tell him what I saw? I looked to the silent officer at the door, but he offered no help.

“Are you afraid of losing your job?” The detective’s voice was weary. “Worried about getting in trouble with your boss?”

My job? I blinked, confused. “I don’t … understand? Are you going to arrest him?”

Detective Valero scratched at the edge of his beard with a thumb. “We have hard evidence of some pretty significant crimes. Underage hiring, questionable tax practices.” He counted the crimes off with his fingers. “Potential money laundering, organized crime.”

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