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"You're not getting in," he says.
"To your town, I presume. Because I don't take direction well?"
"No, because of Blaine Saratori."
I sit down. I don't even realize I'm doing it until it's too late. He takes the opposite chair.
"Did you really think I wouldn't figure it out?" he says. "You and Saratori get attacked, and he runs, leaving you to get the shit kicked out of you. Then, apparently, the guys who beat you up come back and shoot him ... two months after your attack. Which is also a week after you get out of the hospital. And the person who called in the shooting? A young woman. I got hold of the police report. They questioned you but, considering your condition, ruled you out. Which means they were fucking lousy detectives."
No, I was just a fucking good actor. The broken eighteen-year-old girl who could barely walk, couldn't even think straight yet, certainly couldn't plan and get away with murder.
I could deny it. He can't have proof. But I'm tired of denying it. I just say, "I understand."
I don't really. There's a little part of me that wants to say, Why? For the first time ever, I actually want to defend myself--to point out what those thugs did to me because of Blaine, to say I didn't intend to kill him, to say I've punished myself more than Leo Saratori ever could. Instead I only say, I understand.
"Good," he says. "Saves me from a bullshit interview. Now we'll sit here for twenty minutes."
I manage two. Then I glance through the one-way glass. Diana is talking to Valerie.
"Will she get in?" I ask.
"No."
I look at him, startled. "But she needs it. Her ex--"
"I don't like her story. Not enough supporting evidence. You're the detective. Would you believe her?"
"Given that I'm the one who's had to mop up her blood? Yes, I would."
"You expect me to take your word for that?" He shakes his head before I can answer. "Doesn't matter. We don't run a charity camp. Usefulness is as important as need. We don't have any use for someone in--what is it--accounting?"
"Then she'll learn a trade. She can sew--she makes most of her own clothes. You must need that."
When he doesn't answer, I think about what he's just said. Two things--that he doesn't want me in this town, and that they favour those with relevant skills. Now I understand why they rushed to grant us this interview.
"Your town needs a detective," I say. "And something tells me it's not because you're low on your visible-minority quota."
He frowns, pure incomprehension.
I continue, "Someone who outranks you wants a detective, and you don't appreciate the insinuation that you--or your force--need help."
I thought his gaze was steel before. I was wrong. It was stone. Now I get steel, sharp and cold. "No," he says, enunciating. "I am the one who requested a detective. I just don't want you."
"Wrong gender?"
Again, that look of incomprehension. It's not feigned, either, as if he genuinely doesn't know why that would be an issue.
"My age, then. I'm too young."
"You're two months older than me, and I'm the sheri
ff. So, no, it's not age. This isn't open for debate. I need a detective, but I don't want you. End of discussion."
"Is it? Someone made you go through with this meeting, meaning it's not entirely your decision to make, sheriff." I look at the one-way glass again. "How about a deal? Take Diana. She won't go without me, so tell her I'm coming. Tell her that I need training and debriefing before I arrive. After she's there, I'll change my mind."
"Bullshit."
"Not bullshit. I don't want to go; I just want her to."
