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And before he could argue, she slipped off the gurney, grabbed her bag of clothes from the shelf beneath it, and pulled the curtain between them so she could get dressed.
* * *
Camila got allthe way downtown, past the security check-in at the Thirty-Third, and up the stairs leading to the Intelligence Unit’s office before realizing that her nerves had come along for the ride. Her heart tapped out a steady drumbeat that kept time with the dull throb at her temple with every step, dread suddenly bursting through her belly at the thought of having to recount everything that had happened. Which was stupid, really, since she was literally in one of the safest places in Remington right now, with her very overprotective brother beside her, to boot. But the closer she got to the Intelligence office itself, the faster her pulse thudded against her ears, a sheen of sweat forming at her brow.
You’re going to be okay, Camila. Just breathe.
She’d have to unpack the fact that her internal pep talk had been delivered by Kai Roman’s sexy, smoky voice later. Right now, she had a statement to give.
Camila pulled in a long, fortifying inhale and walked over the threshold into the bustling, brightly lit space. She’d never been inside the Thirty-Third before, and the office wasn’t quite what she’d expected. Yeah, it was one large, open space with pairs or trios of desks clustered together, not unsimilar to the police department offices she’d seen on various TV shows. But the Intelligence Unit office also boasted a wall of second-story windows that offered plenty of sunlight and a high ceiling that made the place feel spacious and comfortable. Camila would do unspeakable things to have a studio space like this. Not that she had a studio space at all, since all of her drawing had been relegated to the hobby zone. But she’d bet she could sketch for hours with all this perfect light.
Of course, not everything about the office was a surprise. In addition to the desks where most of the Intelligence Unit detectives currently sat working, a longer workstation spanned most of the wall across from the windows, complete with a six-monitor video array above the center desk, where the unit’s tech and surveillance expert, James Capelli, currently sat typing at the speed of light.
“Camila,” he said, his black-framed glasses emphasizing his serious stare as he caught sight of her and Matteo, his eyes lingering for an extra beat on the adhesive bandage that Camila had tried (in vain, apparently) to cover with the long sweep of her bangs. “I didn’t think you’d be coming in. How are you feeling?”
She should have known the news of her having been in the bank during the robbery would travel at the speed of online gossip. Isabella and her partner, Detective Liam Hollister, both looked up from their desks with surprise, too, and ugh. Time to rip this Band-Aid off in one swift yank.
“I’m fine,” Camila said, adding on, “I’ve got a bit of a headache,” so her brother didn’t add on, “She’snotfine.” Her smile pinched. “But I’m ready to give a statement like everyone else.”
“Of course,” Hollister said after exchanging a lightning-fast glance with Matteo that had probably been code for about fifty different things. Isabella pulled out the empty chair that had been resting between her desk and Hollister’s, letting her get comfortable.
Surprise popped in her chest as Matteo turned to walk over the doorless threshold at the back of the office that looked like it led down a hallway. “Oh,” Camila said, looking from Hollister to Isabella. “So, it’s just us, then?”
“Not exactly,” Hollister said, Camila’s belly tightening despite his laid-back tone. Of course, her brother would nevernotstick around for something like this. “We were able to take most of the witness statements one on one. But since you were in the vault and you interacted with the robbers more than anyone else, we’d like the whole team to be present for yours.”
“Sergeant Sinclair will be the only one who asks questions,” Isabella tacked on quickly, “and we’ll keep the whole thing as brief as possible. We know you’ve been through a lot today.”
Camila straightened. “It’s okay. I can do it.”
“If you change your mind at any point, we can switch things up. Being overwhelmed by events like this is entirely normal,” Hollister said, and Camila couldn’t keep her doubt in check.
“Somehow, I doubt that you guys get overwhelmed when the crap hits the fan.”
Hollister shocked the hell out of her by laughing. “Oh, we totally do. Your brother included. We’re just trained to hide it better than other people.”
Camila’s mind flew to the image of Roman that she’d swept aside earlier, his body strong and steady beside hers on the cold marble tiles of the bank floor, his voice as unwavering as his expression as he told her to breathe, and yeah. Either Roman was an Oscar-worthy actor or he was the exception to the damned rule.
“If you say so,” Camila murmured. Matteo reappeared in the back of the office with Shawn Maxwell and Addison Hale following close behind. Camila had always thought they’d made hilarious work partners on the surface, with Maxwell towering more than a foot taller than Hale, his dark, close-cropped hair and tattoos pretty much the polar opposite of her blond ponytail, bubblegum-pink lip gloss, and cheerful perma-smile. But Camila had heard enough stories of Hale’s toughness chasing down criminals and Maxwell’s tenderness with his four-year-old daughter to know that they complemented each other perfectly as partners, despite appearances. Sergeant Sinclair rounded out the group, his steel-gray stare never failing to make Camila just the tiniest bit intimidated even though on the few occasions she’d seen him, he’d never been anything but nice.
“Camila,” Sinclair said, pulling a chair from Capelli’s workstation to bring it closer to where she sat. “Matteo said you don’t have a concussion. That’s great news.”
She nodded. “Dr. Riley said I’m fine to give a statement.”
“We’re glad you could come in. Why don’t you start by telling me what you remember?”
“Okay, sure.” She nodded. She could do this. Sheneededto do this. “I was in the bank, over on the side by the tellers’ counter, when three men came into the lobby, carrying guns.” Camila swallowed. “Rifles,” she semi-corrected. “Not handguns. They were wearing all black, and they had on some kind of gear. Sort of like a SWAT team.”
“Tactical gear,” Matteo murmured, and Capelli spent a few seconds typing before an image flashed over one of the screens on the wall-mounted array over his desk.
“Like this?”
Camila’s heart pressed faster at her throat. “Yes. They were wearing masks that covered their faces and heads, and they were all wearing gloves. The main guy—the leader, I guess?—he was pretty average height for a man. Six feet, I think, but it was hard to tell because I was on the ground for most of the time. One of the men was bigger than him. Taller and really muscular.”
She shivered at the image burned into her mind’s eye, the razor-wire voice that went with it, telling her he was going to shoot her and Rosalie, but no. No, no, she had to be strong. He couldn’t hurt her here. “The other one was a lot smaller. Shorter than the other two and with a slighter build. I tried to look for more details, but their faces were totally covered, and it all happened so fast.”
“It’s okay. These guys knew exactly what they were doing,” Sinclair said. “So, they came into the bank through the front door?”
“Yes.” Camila nodded. “The one guy—the leader—told us all they were robbing the bank. He said he had control of the cameras and our cell phones wouldn’t work, then he told us to put our hands on our heads. He was really calm about it. We all did what he said, and then the other two went to the opposite side of the lobby to get everyone else and bring them to where Roman and I were.”
