"I'm calling Officer Reeves," I say, standing up.
"What — now? It's half six."
"I know. She'll be up. People on probation have early check-ins, especially in summer." I head for the kitchen and find my phone. "If this is coming out, and it's already out, I'm not having her hear it from someone who's seen it and wants to cause trouble." I find the number. "You're still serving a sentence and the last thing we need is this surfacing in a way that looks like we sat on it and hoped for the best. Or worse, that she thinks I'm taking advantage of you."
"Maggie, you don't have to be the one —"
"I do. Trust me."
Reeves answers and I apologize for the hour. I make myself say it in plain words. There's no graceful way to do it and trying for one would only be worse. That a video was posted to the sanctuary's social media account last night, by accident. That it was personal. That it involved Sloane and me — I hunt for a word and land on "involved." That it's been deleted, but some people have already seen it, and I wanted her to hear it from me before she heard it any other way.
There's a silence on the line long enough that I check the call hasn't dropped.
"Let me make sure I've got this," Reeves says eventually. "A compromising video of the two of you was posted to the animal sanctuary's account."
"Yes. By accident, obviously."
She exhales slowly and I'd put money on her pinching the bridge of her nose. "Ms. Dawson, I've done this job eleven years and I've taken some strange calls before seven in the morning. I want you to know this is a first of its kind. Obviously." Then the professional flatness comes back and she gets to it — was it consensual, was anyone else present, how long has this been going on — and I answer every question straight, my face burning. Sloane watches me with both hands pressed over her mouth, because there is no dignified way to confirm to a lawenforcement officer at dawn that yes, it was consensual, no, nobody else was there, the camera was an accident, and it's been a few weeks.
"All right. Here's where we are," Reeves says when I've finished. "Nothing you've described is illegal. Two adults, consenting, in a private home, after hours. The accidental broadcast is mortifying but it's not a crime, and it's not a violation of her terms, so you can let go of that part." A pause. "But you're the supervising party on a court placement, and there's a power imbalance built into that whether either of you wanted one, so I'll need to come out and speak to Ms. Archer on her own. Just to put it on the record that this was her choice and nobody leaned on anybody."
"Of course. Whatever you need."
"I have a slot free tomorrow morning, ten o'clock. Tell Ms. Archer to be at the motel, I'll meet her there." And then, just before she goes, she says, "You did the right thing calling me." And she hangs up.
I lower the phone.
"Well?" Sloane stares at me.
"She wants to talk to you tomorrow, on your own — to confirm it was your choice. That I wasn't using the situation." I can't get the next part out smoothly. "She has to make sure I'm not the kind of person who'd use a court order to —"
"You're not. Maggie, if anything I'm the one who —"
"I know. But it's good that it's on the record. For both our sakes."
The morning light stretches gold across the paddock and Hank is braying for our attention. Normally this is my favorite time of day but I can't bring myself to appreciate the view.
"I get that you don't want to read those messages right now," I say. "And neither do I. But I need to know exactly what we're dealing with so I'm sorry. I'm going to google you."
"Okay." Sloane gets up with a sigh. "I can't just yet though. I'll give Hank his apple and start feeding."
As she wanders off, I open the browser and type Sloane Archer into the bar. The results load and I read the first line, then the second. It's much worse than I thought.
63
SLOANE
"So that's it?" I ask.
"That's it." Officer Reeves closes the folder on her knee and clicks her pen shut.
We're in my motel room, which is a strange place to have this conversation. She's in the chair, the wobbly one by the dresser, and I'm on the edge of the bed with my hands tucked under my thighs. The fridge shudders to life and Reeves visibly startles. Then she recovers, smooths her jacket, and ignores it. Embarrassed to spill the details, I've spent a significant portion of this interview looking at the Florida-shaped water stain on the ceiling. Now that it's over, I can finally look her in the eyes.
"You're not in any trouble," she says, raising her voice over the noise of the fridge. "I've spoken to Ms. Dawson, I've spoken to you, it's all consistent, all consensual. As far as the court's concerned it's merely a morally gray area, not an offense." She tucks the pen into her shirt pocket. "But do me a favor. Just — keep it in your pants until your hours are up, all right? Sleep here."
"I —"
She holds up a hand. "I've got a caseload that would put you in the ground. I've got two genuine flight risks, a kid who's about to violate over a missed curfew, and a man who I'm fairly sure is selling methadone from the community center he's serving his hours in. I don't have the time or the patience to deal with any more —" she searches for a word, gives up, lands on the unflattering one "— any more chick-fights, or whatever it is the two of you would get up to if this went sideways. No more drama. Just finish your sentence quietly. Can you do that for me?"
