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I hide a grin. “The Acura finally give up the ghost?”
He’s frowning. “Really?”
Whoops. Apparently, we’re not driving the boring sedan anymore. “Sorry. Listen. How about I let you use the Porsche. I can take an Uber back to the precinct.”
He considers me, but he’s always liked my wheels, so I see the yes forming. “Fine. I’ll drop you off, then swing by to get you when my car is done.”
I won’t be there, maybe, but maybe neither of us will, (I’m not sure how this works, exactly), so I nod.
He considers me. “Okay. The file is in my desk. Side drawer. You know the combination.”
Huh. So he’s still using his military ID number.
“In the meantime, you start shaking down the local gyms.”
“Sure thing.” Then, I stick out my hand. I’m not sure why, but this Burke has been a good friend to me, and I’ll miss him. He stares at me, but shakes it, wearing a frown and a half-grin.
“What?”
“It’s just…aw, nothing. Hey.” He’s still holding my grip. “Is that Booker’s watch?” He turns my wrist over.
“Yeah. He gave it to me. Doesn’t work though. It’s just a momento.”
“Did you try winding it? John was always fiddling with it.”
I stare at him, a coldness flushing through me. You don’t think…did Booker know how to—
“See you back at the precinct,” Burke says, breaking through my realization.
I toss Burke the keys, and give him my valet stub, then pull up my app for Uber. My ride is waiting for me when I reach the lobby.
The office is just starting to hum with the day when I arrive, the coffee makers gurgling and cell phones ringing. The bull pen is busy with junior investigators and officers typing out reports. I see an open box of donuts next to the coffee machine and take one. If everything goes right, this version of reality is about to be overwritten.
I head to Burke’s office and work the lock. Inside, along with a thick file is a bottle of Dewars, two glasses and a metal lockbox. Interesting. I retrieve the file and take it down the hall to my office.
The Jackson files are piled on my desk. I drop my satchel on the floor and sit down.
Flip off the rubber binder and open the case.
A picture of my four-year old is stapled to the top, along with her case number and maybe Burke was right—I don’t want to see this.
But I can’t stop a crime if I don’t know about it, so I open the file.
The picture assaults me, and I wince, bile filling my chest at the color photograph of Ashley’s body, found in a shallow river in Bass Lake park. She’s wearing her Little Mermaid nightgown, her feet dirty, her hair tangled as if she’d been dragged.
I swallow the bile back, turn the picture over and read the report. Taken from our home in the middle of the night—where was I?—and found two days later in the park. Strangled.
Not sexually assaulted, however. I close my eyes against a terrible heat. Thank you, God.
But she must have been so terrified. I can almost hear her calling for me and the sound of it echoes in the chambers of my soul.
Enough. I push back my sleeve. Last time I wound the watch it simply ticked to life, soft, a heartbeat through time. Then the hands spun and settled on the time of the first explosion.
But the hands don’t move. There’s no thunder, no blackness folding over me.
I close my eyes, and try to project myself to Ashley’s bedroom, standing amid the neighborhood of stuffed animals, imagine her sleeping in her bed, her blonde hair splayed over her pillow.
I’m still here, and my chest is tightening.
