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Foul play? I almost laugh. Cops actually say that?
Focus, damn it. Focus.
Instead, I hear myself say, “Foul play?” my voice squeaking a little.
That squeak is a laugh at the absurdity of the phrase, but thankfully, he mistakes it for panic and rushes on with “There’s no sign that anything happened.”
“Except that you found his very expensive vehicle abandoned in the swamp, with the keys on the seat.”
The officer squirms.
You’re very new at this, aren’t you? Just a baby cop. Give it time, and you’ll have no problem telling me to expect the worst. No problem telling a seventeen-year-old girl that you’ll overlook the drugs in her backpack in return for a few minutes spent on her knees. No problem brushing off a nineteen-year-old girl when she asks for help escaping her boyfriend.
“We didn’t find any traces of blood,” he says, and then his face spasms in horror, as if realizing what images that last word could conjure for a woman like me.
“So what do you think happened?” I ask.
That is cruel. I know it is. This baby cop doesn’t deserve it, but I must ask, even if I know the answer.
The young man’s face spasms anew as he tries—and fails—to find a suitably optimistic expression.
Finally, he clears his throat and says, “I cannot speculate, ma’am, but without signs of, uh, violence, it’s possible his car was taken for a joyride and abandoned in the swamp, with the keys on the seat, in hopes someone else would take it.”
“Why not leave it in a public place?”
“I—” He squares his shoulders. “I cannot speculate, ma’am. I can only say that criminals don’t always behave in a logical manner.”
“Then where is Liam?” I ask. “The car wasn’t taken from my driveway. He had the keys, and now he’s missing.”
“We don’t know that. We’ve sent a car to his place of residence.”
Yes, because clearly, he returned to Tampa, where someone stole his Rover and drove it back to abandon it on an ATV trail outside Fort Exile.
I know this officer doesn’t believe that. He’s been tasked with talking to “the girlfriend,” and his job is to keep me calm.
I am always calm, kid.
I’ve learned to be.
This young officer is sweet and sincere, and I cannot cling to my prejudice any longer, so I let him off the hook with, “Hopefully, he’s there.”
The officer nods. “Yes, now, if you don’t mind, I need to ask you a few questions about the last time you saw him.”
The last time I saw him.
Those words hit hard, and tears threaten. I let one fall and then blink the rest back. The young officer wants my story. So I give him one. Not my life story, of course. That wouldn’t help his investigation. It’s pertinent, though. In a way I hope he’ll never know.
Let’s start at the beginning, Officer... Coleman, is it? That’s what your name tag says, though you introduced yourself as Montrell, so let’s go with that.
When did I last see my lover, Montrell? Here’s the version I will tell you.
“Last night. At about... midnight, maybe? We’d gone to bed, and we’d both had a bit too much to drink, and we...” My cheeks flame at the memory, or I hope they do. “Let’s just say we’d had too much to drink. So, there was that.”
I continue, “That’s the last time I saw him. I woke at three, and his side of the bed was empty. I figured he was using the bathroom, and I fell back to sleep.”
“So he may have left after you two...” Officer Coleman clears his throat. “After you initially fell asleep. That was the last time anyone seems to have seen him.”
“I don’t know about my houseguest. She says she didn’t see him this morning.”
