Page 32 of When the Smoke Clears

The officer picks up the desk phone and starts speaking quietly, my name falling from his lips. His head bobs in acknowledgement of something, even though the person on the other end can’t see him. The receiver smashes into the cradle and I jolt, but his face is still impassive.

“This way.” His volume hardly increases as he stands. There’s a door to the right of the desk, and I move hesitantly toward it. “I’ll meet you on the inside.”

That doesn’t sound good.

A buzzer blares and a lock clicks as it disengages. I pull open the metal door with effort. The officer stands at a similar door just inside the small hallway.

“Follow me.” He rounds a corner and I work to keep pace. He doesn’t have an incredible height on me, but my tender steps make it hard to move quickly. Voices float through doors, although I can’t make anything out.

We stop at two black doors, side by side. Nausea washes over me. I imagine that inside these doors there’s an adjoining wall with a one-way window. This suddenly feels far more real than I anticipated, and I’m second guessing if Sutton was right about bringing a lawyer. One of these days my fierce independence is going to do more harm than good. I may have reached that time, actually.

The officer shoves one of the doors open and I’m happy to find there is not, in fact, a window of any sort. A table and three chairs butt up against one wall.

“Detective Porter will be here in a minute.” The officer closes the door behind him without waiting for me to respond.

He’s pleasant.

Claustrophobia creeps in as my stance on the lack of windows changes. I’m not shut in for good, but there’s an element to being closed off that doesn’t sit right.

I choose the chair in the corner, pulling it farther from the table, and facing the door. Almost immediately, Detective Porter walks in.

“Hey, how are ya?” He closes the door behind him and plops down in the chair opposite me, his notebook in hand. I don’t have a chance to respond. “Thanks for coming in.”

His voice is relatively welcoming, even as he looks me over with narrowed eyes.

I stare at him. Am I supposed to say you’re welcome? I’m not feeling especially cordial.

He smiles at me. It doesn’t meet his eyes. There’s a too-long moment of quiet between us.

“So, I want to start with what you told me at the hospital. Mr. Young came over to the house on Bluebonnet Cove without your knowledge.”

I nod. “That’s correct.”

“How did you and Mr. Young meet?” He tosses the notebook onto the table loudly, clasping his hands and looking directly into my eyes. It’s open to a page where notes are scribbled on the top section.

If he thinks he’s going to intimidate me, it won’t work. “We met at The Spur.”

“When?”

“October 6th.”

“October 6th,” he repeats, as if mulling it over. He yanks a pen from his shirt, clicks it loudly to extend the ink chamber and jots the date down. “What was the nature of your relationship?”

I consider for a moment. “I wouldn’t really call it a relationship. He bought me and a friend drinks. We talked with him and a friend of his—”

“What friend?”

“Pete.”

“What’s Pete’s last name?” He looks up from writing, waiting.

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” His tone isn’t accusatory, but his gaze is still hard.

My jaw clenches. “Listen. I told you at the hospital, I’m willing to help you. I have nothing to hide. I’ll answer your questions, you can check my phone records, pull whatever surveillance from wherever, I don’t care. But this will go a lot faster if you stop repeating me and assume that I’m telling you the truth.”

He gives me a sarcastic smile from one side of his mouth.Click. He tosses the pen onto his notebook.

---