Page 35 of Overexposed

He promised it would be there in two days. Then I’d need lenses—a whole list of things rattled through my head. I’d keep a tally. Two days of sitting idle wouldn’t kill me, but I could do some other work in the meantime. Once I had my coffee and nerves in hand, I headed for my second unpleasant task of the day.

I needed to sign the report about Dillon’s attack. It would help clear Olivier of any wrongdoing. While I was there, I could file a report on the break-in to my car. The broken window was a lot of evidence. But without the police report, I couldn’t file with insurance.

Somehow, I doubted insurance would cover enough of the equipment to replace it. It had to be done though. The last thing I wanted to do was tell Dad that his very best camera was just gone along with my most expensive one.

Baby steps, I reminded myself. Dad didn’t need to know this part. I’d killed half of the coffee by the time I got to the police station. Parking the car, I eyed the glass still on the floor. I needed to find someone to replace the window. Not an easy task for a car this old.

Again, one problem at a time. Bag strap over my shoulder and phone in my pocket, I headed into the station with my coffee. There were three people in line ahead of me. It wasn’t a long wait before it was my turn.

“I’m here to sign a report from Sergeant McBride and I also need to file a report about items stolen from my car last night.”

The officer behind the desk eyed me. “I’ll call the sergeant, but you’ll need to see a different officer about the robbery.”

“That’s fine.”

“Driver’s license?” He needed to see ID because of course he did.

I passed it over; he studied it before he ran it through a scanner to add it to his screen.

“Address still valid?”

“Yep,” I answered. He acknowledged the response with a nod as he continued to type into the computer.

After he handed me my license back, he waved me to where there were three rows of hard, ugly, little plastic chairs. “Have a seat. An officer will come out to get you.”

The officer wasn’t in a hurry apparently. I was almost done with the coffee entirely when a man stepped out from the heavy, secured door.

“Stella Charles?”

“That’s me,” I said, standing. It was better to just get this over with.

“I’m Detective Doogan,” he said, introducing himself, and I shook his hand. “You’re here to sign a complaint and to report another crime?”

“Yes,” I said, then tacked on a belated “sir” at the end. Detective Doogan was a tall, somewhat rounded man with white hair and a receding hairline that seemed to be in a full rout.

“Come on back with me. I’ll take the report and we can go over the complaint.”

“Should I wait for Sergeant McBride?” That was who’d taken all the information.

“He’s on a call at the moment, but I have the report. We’ll go over it and make sure all the facts are accurate. It will also give you a chance to correct any errors before you sign it.”

“Great,” I said, making sure my bag strap was secure over my shoulder. The detective went back to the door, scanned a card, and then entered a number before the lock released. “Thanks,” I said as he held it open and waved me in.

I’d been in a police station before, but the last time had been about ten years earlier when I’d been joyriding with a boyfriend. Only then, I’d been stuck out front waiting for Dad to comeget me. That had been a date that started out great and ended terribly.

The institutional beige wasn’t that soothing to any nerves, but I just followed the detective to a little narrow, windowless room that boasted a table and four chairs. He waved me inside.

“Give me a minute.” Then he headed down the hall and left me to go in and take a seat. Hopefully this visit ended better than my last one. I wasn’t the one in trouble, right?

I sat down in the chairs closest to the door. He hadn’t indicated there was a proper side, but I didn’t like the idea of him being between me and the exit. There was a camera up in the corner, the little red dot on it a declaration that it was recording.

The detective returned with a couple of dirt-brown-colored file folders. He put one down on the corner of the table before he flipped open the second one. He removed several sheets of paper before he passed it to me.

“This is Sergeant McBride’s report and complaint compiled from your statements. If you can read through that and verify that it’s all true to the best of your knowledge?”

I blew out a long breath and nodded. The report was pretty straightforward. McBride had written in short, direct sentences a sequence of events that included Dillon’s assault at my car, his strangulation, and the blows I’d taken to the head.

It was more than a little unsettling to see it laid out so clinically. The report also included Olivier’s arrival and subsequent interference with Dillon’s assault—interference. Such a little word for the ass-kicking he’d given Dillon.

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