Page 54 of Bram

“My name is Julie Sparta,” I said, clear as I could, projecting. “District Attorney, Barstow County. I just shot a man. The gun’s on the hood.”

Younger Cop looked from the gun to the body to my face, registering each one with the dawning horror of a man who’d expected some kind of standard traffic stop and walked into an execution. I almost felt bad for him. Almost.

“Step away from the weapon,” Stocky said, and I did, walking backward until I felt the heat from the hood of their car on the backs of my legs.

Younger Cop kept his gun pointed at my chest. Stocky moved in, patted me down with the sort of thoroughness that said I looked exactly like someone who would have a backup piece taped to her thigh. He found nothing but sweat, gunpowder, and the edge of a bandage below my ribs. His hands were brisk and impersonal.

“Turn around.”

I did, hands still up, and he clicked the cuffs on—tight, but not cruel. The pressure made my pulse pop against the metal, and I concentrated on the rhythm, measuring out seconds the way I always did when the adrenaline threatened to blur the edges of my sight.

“Weapon registered?” Stocky asked.

“Registered to Bram Jackson. He’s the one bleeding and breathing,” I said. “The body’s my father. My biological daddy.” I glanced at Bram, and he gave me a subtle wink.

The cop made a noise that was not quite disbelief and not quite sympathy. He must have had the brief, or at least a warning—nobody sent this many units for a simple domestic without a heads-up. Maybe the Chief had called ahead. Maybe someone in the DA’s office had tripped the silent alarm.

More officers arrived, moving around the scene in a coordinated dance: securing the perimeter, snapping photos, tagging evidence. I watched it all with the detachment of someone watching their own movie, the script already written and the ending already spoiled by the reviews.

Nobody talked to Bram at first. He leaned against Edge’s shoulder while Rusty pressed a wad of gauze to the wound below his ribs. Edge kept his eyes down, but Rusty looked over at me once, unreadable. Kodiak, hulking and silent as always, just watched from the edge of the lot, hands in his jacket, observing the police like a man sizing up animals at a petting zoo.

Once the medics finished with the Colonel’s corpse (bagged, tagged, and zipped up before I even caught my breath), Stocky led me to the back of his squad car. He read my rights, and I nodded at each one. He asked if I understood. I said yes, and for a second, I saw something like recognition in his eyes—a flash that told me he knew who I was, not just the DA but the daughter, the woman who had just blown her father’s head off in a biker war outside city limits.

The ride to the station was a four-minute eternity. They didn’t speak except for the standard radio checks. I watched the town pass in quick blurs—donut shop, gas station, dog chained up in someone’s yard, barking at nothing and everything. I wondered if the Colonel would have laughed at that, or if he’d have shot the dog just for the principle of it.

They walked me in through the back. No reporters yet, but that would change. I held my head level and didn’t look at the other cops watching me, didn’t look at the smears my boots left on the tile. They put me in a windowless room with a bolted table and two metal chairs, then left me to sit, hands cuffed behind my back, the smell of gun oil and hospital disinfectant mingling into something close to nostalgia.

It took half an hour for the door to open. Feldman walked in, suit immaculate except for the sweat stains in his armpits. He didn’t look angry, just tired, the way you look at a cat who’s knocked a vase off the counter and can’t understand why you keep buying vases.

“They going to charge me?” I asked.

He dropped a folder on the table and looked at me. “You really want to do this right now?”

I rolled my shoulders, the cuffs digging in. “We have about eight minutes before Ruiz gets the call from the Chief. Can you get these off me or do we have to do the good cop, bad cop thing first?”

Feldman didn’t smile, but he didn’t not smile. He stepped behind me, fished out a key, and popped the cuffs.

I flexed my hands, fingers numb. “Thanks.”

He sat, hands folded in front of him. “You know how this plays out, Julie. Even with your title, you’re going to spend the night here. You’re not getting released on your own recognizance, not with witnesses and not with that last name.”

“Let them.” My voice came out flat, the way it always did when I’d already run out of emotion. “Just make sure they keep me separate from gen pop.”

“Already done.” He tapped the folder. “You’re in holding, private cell, cameras on the block. No press allowed. You’ll be processed as an at-risk detainee until bail. You want a doctor?”

I shook my head. “Not unless I start leaking from somewhere new.”

He grunted, then gave me a long, slow look. “You did the right thing,” he said. “But nobody’s going to say it out loud.”

“I know.”

He slid a page across the table. “Sign here. Statement of facts. I’ll have Bram and his crew do theirs. If you want, I can get Sally in to talk. She’s at the clubhouse with your sister.”

That almost cracked the surface, but I swallowed it down. “She can wait. I need one thing from you.”

Feldman’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

I leaned forward, dropping my voice. “There’s a lockbox in Sally’s closet. Black, heavy. Get it to Bram. He’ll know what to do with it. Don’t open it yourself.”