Page 67 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
Still behind her.
Her fingers tightened around the wheel. Could be a coincidence. Could be nothing.
She slowed slightly, hoping it would pass. It didn’t.
Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs.
Trying to keep her breathing steady, she took the next exit, weaving onto a quieter stretch of road. She checked the mirror.
The SUV followed.
A trickle of sweat ran down her back.
She signaled right. The SUV signaled right.
Okay. Not paranoia. Not a coincidence.
She could hear her own breathing now, sharp and fast. Her mind raced through possibilities. Carjackers? No, too polished, too precise. A private investigator hired by her mother? Maybe.
Then she saw the plates.
Government.
Her breath hitched.
Red and blue strobes flared along the windshield and grille.
Shit.
Her foot hovered over the accelerator. Run? Try to lose them on the way into the city?
No. That was stupid. She’d wrap her car around a tree and end up in jail for fleeing a federal agent.
Adrenaline made her movements jerky, but she forced her foot onto the brake. Indicated. Pulled over. Prayed they would pass.
They didn’t.
The SUV stopped behind her. A woman stepped out.
She was Black. Cropped, graying hair. A crinkled shirt with a pink stain on the front.
Julia closed her eyes. Whatever this was, it wasn’t good. Not for her. Not for Daniel.
The woman reached the window, glancing between Julia and the suitcase on the passenger seat.
“Gee,” she said, dryly. “I hope you weren’t planning on going somewhere.”
EIGHTEEN
Julia staredup at the camera that sat on the ceiling like a giant fly, red light blinking fiendishly. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. It must have been over an hour since they’d left her in this room, so narrow she could almost touch both walls with outstretched arms, with only a cup of water for company. Two plastic chairs faced her over a wonky trestle table, scarred over with gang graffiti.
The center of the table was claimed by tags from the usual suspects: the Vice Lords,La Mano Negra, the Gangster Disciples, the Latin Kings. There were, however, a few scribblings from unaffiliated outsiders. One was a little etching of a police officer being shot in the neck, complete with arterial spray and wafting gun smoke. She ran her hand over it, feeling the grooves etched deeply into the Formica surface. She could tell the victim was a cop because the artist had taken the time to chisel the word PIG above the dying stick figure’s head and a triumphant ME over the smiling assassin. Probably not admissible in court, but still not smart to be decorating a table with in an CPD interrogation facility in Holman Square.
She wasn’t under arrest. No one had specified any charges or read her rights. But then, she wasn’t sure if DEA agents even did those things. What they had done was take her bag and phone off her, which meant she didn’t know the time and no way of contacting anyone, even if she was under arrest. Each passing second stretched into an eternity.
Somewhere down a hall, she heard a toilet flushing, a door banging shut. Footsteps approached, voices sprang up outside the door. Then the door opened with a whoosh, sucking the stale air out of the room.
In came Special Agent Belinda Weck, buried behind an armload of binders. She shuffled into the room and unloaded the stack onto the table, dropping a leather satchel on top for good measure. Plastic cards and keys jingled from a lanyard around her neck.
