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“Um, twelve-ish? He took his time, walking around, and then went to his house, came out again, went down to the river to wash his face, then walked to town, bought some booze, sat down to drink it... Why?”
“Because, Josh, the bank was robbed during that time, and you are Ross’s alibi.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Ross
I doze on and off, and I dream of falling and falling. Feels like I’m falling all the fucking way from heaven to the pits of hell. I jerk awake time and again, curled in the jail cell, someone snoring across from me, someone cursing the police, the stench of vomit and booze suffocating. It turns my stomach, and I groan, uncurling and stretching cramped limbs.
I’ve lost track of time. There are no windows in here. No way to tell if it’s night or day.
“Ready to sign that confession, Jones?” the cop who has been interrogating me comes to the bars of the door and grins cheerfully at me. “Put a signature on your sins?”
“Will I get a deal? You said you’d negotiate a shorter sentence.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure thing.”
I narrow my eyes at him. Too cheerful, too certain, and this is too big a matter. I don’t think I’ll survive for long in prison. “I want to talk to a lawyer.”
His smile fades. “You’d better not annoy the boss any more, Jones, or you can forget about any deal, hear me?”
“I’m not signing, otherwise, just so you know.”
Eyes narrowed, the cop goes away, and I get a whistle and some clapping from the cell next to mine.
“Looking for a good beating from the cops, are you?” The guy is missing some teeth and he looks like something the cat dragged in. “Then maybe you’ll get your wish. If I were you, though, I’d save your energy for prison life. It will suck the life out of ya.”
I bare my teeth at him. I don’t know why, after admitting defeat, after capitulating, I’ve this urge to strike back, or at least annoy the sheriff. Something about a dream of tumbling down from up high—and a hand catching me, perhaps. A sweet face looking down at me, begging me not to let go.
Getting to my feet, I shake out my hands and take a breath, certain that the sheriff will make his appearance next to threaten me into signing the confession.
A door clangs open and I grab the bars, ready for him.
But the man who enters the office isn’t the sheriff. Tall, dark and strong, he looks familiar and the name trembles on the tip of my tongue.
“Ross Jones? Detective Elba,” he says and grins, coming up to me. “John Elba.”
Very funny.
He’s followed by a sullen sheriff and a couple
more cops, all of them looking like someone pissed in their cornflakes.
“What’s up?” I ask him, lightly, trying for nonchalant, because I’ll be damned before I let the sheriff see how terrified I’ve been these past few days, and the toll it’s taken on my self-control. “They took my phone. I asked for you many times but they brushed me off.”
“That true, sheriff?” Elba turns a laser-sharp look on the man who seems to shrink. “You know that’s unconstitutional, right? Jones hasn’t even been charged with any crime yet.”
I wait for the sheriff to say that it’s only a matter of time, that I’ve confessed already, but he keeps his mouth shut.
Then Elba turns back to me, opens his arms like he’s a diva in a fucking opera, and says, “Ross Jones, you’re free to go.”
Wait a sec... rewind.
“What did you just say?” I’m gripping the bars so hard my knuckles are turning white.
“You’re free to go. You have an alibi for the time of the crime.”
Reeling on my feet, I take two steps back. “Who?”
