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“Just hang in there and we’ll get this figured out. Until then, think back to everything you saw in that room and tell me any details you remember, no matter how insignificant. Write them all down if you can.”
“I will.”
I push my chair back and stand.
Nicolas flashes me another charming smile. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“Just doing my job.”
I leave him there. The guards take me back out through the lobby, and I stand on the front steps breathing the fresh air. Back inside, Nicolas is probably being taken to his cell again where he’ll stay for a while longer, at least until I can finally gather all my evidence and get him out.
For a second, I can almost feel like myself again. Following this case, figuring it out, working all the angles—it makes me feel like I’m alive, like I’m smart and capable, like I’m more than just a girl that follows orders and tries not to break any rules. I’m saving someone right now and that’s a good feeling. I’m worth something.
Slowly, I head down the steps. I try not to think about what’s waiting for me at home. A pink bedroom, an old desk, a version of myself that I thought I’d grown out of. And my father and my mother, their disappointment, their control, the big quiet house with all my ancient memories. I’m not that girl anymore but I’m also still her and staying in my old room in my old house is slowly warping me back into the shape my parents want.
I slow as I approach my car. I parked way in the back, as far on the other side of the lot as I could, mostly because I wanted to stay in the shade. A big black pick-up truck is parked next to me and the doors pop open when I’m close. Two men get out, and my feet go numb with terror.
Detective John and Mustache stand side by side, staring at me, getting between me and my car.
Nothing happens. Detective John looks tired and pale. Mustache is more or less what I pictured: craggy, thick facial hair, cheap cowboy hat, slim denim jeans, boots. He looks like a walking cliché, like he’s about to rope cattle or go eat barbecue.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” I finally ask, breaking the tense silence.
“Depends.” Mustache spits on the ground. “What did you tell your client in there?”
“That’s between me and him, or have you forgotten about privilege?”
“Fuck privilege,” Detective John says. “And fuck you, stuck-up bitch. What did you tell him?” He steps closer and I’m very aware that we’re all alone in the parking lot. Even though we’re at the far side, we’re still within sight of the prison, which means lots of cameras. The guards inside might hear me screaming, and these two aren’t stupid enough to hurt me where they’ll get caught.
“I didn’t tell him about the interview, if that’s what you’re wondering.” I do my best to pull my walls together. I keep my insides frozen and glare at them, mustering all my scorn into my stare. “What do you think he’d do if he knew the cops were the ones fucking him? That it was your brothers-in-arms that murdered those cartel men?”
“Allegedly,” Mustache says.
“What we did or did not do is none of your concern. I don’t know how many times I have to keep doing this, Sara. But I’m sick of having conversations. Now I’m going to show you why you can’t talk.”
He walks toward me. Mustache grins viciously. I back away, hands raised, and drop my briefcase on the ground. It clatters, bounces. “You can’t do this,” I say, heart racing, a sick fear rising in my throat. Oh, god, my baby, if they hurt me, if they beat me, what will happen to my baby? “The prison. There are cameras—”
“You stupid girl,” Detective John says viciously. “You really fucking think we can’t make that go away too? You’re on our turf.”
He reaches for me, and I yank away before he can lock his fingers around my arm. My heart’s going wild and all I can think is my baby, my baby, as I stagger back, nearly turning my ankle in my low heels. I turn and run, arms working, and Detective John chases, with Mustache on his heels. I’m freaking out, gasping for air, trying to keep it together. If I can reach the lobby, the guards will have to do something—they won’t stand by and watch these men beat me to death—
A car pulls up and slams on its brakes a couple feet away from me. Detective John curses and I stagger, trip, and fall. I catch myself on my hands and gasp as my knee gets skinned and my palms dig into the gravelly asphalt. I turn, look back over my shoulder, and suck in a breath as Angelo gets out of his car, a gun drawn and aimed at Detective John’s chest.
