I gazed into her bloodshot eyes and saw the flicker of madness mixed with fierce greed. For a split second, I thought of calling for help, but I knew no one would come. Not fast enough. By the time they got there, I’d be lying on the floor in a pool of my own blood.
I had to think fast, forcing myself to smile faintly and breathe slowly.
“What are you in for?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Her laughter waned. “They said I was soliciting, but you know how it goes. I was just having a drink at the bar.” She mock-punched me in my arm, but it still hurt. “Right? We’re all innocent here.”
I didn’t say anything. Just looked at her.
“You?” she asked.
“Murder,” I said coldly, my eyes drilling into hers. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take a seat.”
She took a step sideways, getting in my path. Her hands landed on her hips, and the tip of her shoe started tapping against the stained cement floor. “I don’t think so.”
“You’re getting arraigned tomorrow, right?” I asked, throwing a shot in the dark and hoping it hit something.
“So?”
“Wanna rough someone up? Wait until you’re convicted. The soliciting charge will be nothing compared to assault.” I repeated her earlier gesture, pushing her out of my way with three fingers against her shoulder. “While I have nothing to lose,” I added in a barely audible whisper.
Fear glimmered in her dark pupils. I had won this round. She stepped out of the way, and I walked over to the empty bench and sat, my throat constricted, expecting her to pounce on me at any time.
She didn’t.
She wanted to join me, her gestures tentative and her body language submissive, but I pointed my finger at the bench opposing mine, and she sat there without another word, crossing her arms at her busty chest.
I kept staring at the tip of her high-heeled shoe as she bounced it impatiently, while my mind wandered. What was going to happen to me now? How would I get bail if I didn’t have a lawyer? Was that even possible? It would take Billy Ray at least until tomorrow to get to Vegas, even if he drove all night.
Then I realized I needed to tell someone about Claire.
That night, I didn’t sleep a wink.
29
The Interview
It was early morning when another female officer called my name and unlocked the door. It squeaked open and clanged, echoing eerily in the relatively silent precinct. She closed it behind me after I walked out, locking it quickly, and then grabbed my arm and escorted me toward the front of the building.
The precinct was almost deserted. The heels of the shoes I’d traded for with the hooker resounded loudly in the corridors, and I felt taller, more confident, even if repulsed by remembering how badly they smelled.
She opened the door and led me into another interview room, this one identical to the one I’d visited yesterday. Two men sat at a small metallic table. One was the detective who’d arrested me, Stanek. The other, seated on the other side of the table, was a young man I’d never met before. A thick file lay open on the table, probably the same one I’d seen in the cop’s hands yesterday. Both men had steaming paper cups filled with coffee in front of them. My mouth watered, craving the bitter liquid.
“Good morning,” I said as calmly as I could, though my insides were twisting in fear.
The detective shot me a clouded look. “This is Palmer Clayborne from Legal Aid.” I shook the young man’s limp, clammy hand. “Now that you have a lawyer present, we have some questions.” He gestured toward the third chair, and I pulled it from the table. Its legs grated unpleasantly against the floor.
“All right,” I replied, then sat. I thought of asking for some coffee, or at least some water, but decided it was better to use that request later, if I felt cornered and needed a break.
Detective Stanek looked at me, his gaze piercing, scrutinizing. And hostile. I could feel he wasn’t unbiased. In his mind, I was guilty: I’d killed Winston, and he was as sure of it as if he’d witnessed it himself.
After a long moment, he lowered his eyes and flipped through the photos and reports stacked inside the case file.
“Your fingerprints came back clean,” he said, speaking softly. I breathed relief out slowly, careful not to give myself away. “But the search warrant executed at your house found a few interesting things.” He pulled a small evidence pouch from underneath the case file.
I cringed, recognizing my passport and my real driver’s license.
“Hattie Lou Walker,” he said, speaking slowly, as if savoring the words as they left his lips.
