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“Please,” I plead, the five-letter word almost inaudible. “Please.”
Lifting clenched fists to my chest, I tuck my chin and repeat the word again and again as I rock in a gentle rhythm. After several deep breaths, I lift my chin, lower my hands, and open my eyes. Numbness blankets me as I stare at the granite and brick structure,Stone Bay Policein neat, metal letters above a large window.
Go inside. Give Travis the note. Drive home.
Then, you can lose your shit.
Cutting the engine, I inhale one last deep breath, tug on the door handle, and exit the car. I shoulder my purse and clutch the strap with both hands. Appearing more confident than I feel, I stride up the sidewalk, one foot in front of the other. I focus on my destination and disregard my surroundings as I open the front door.
A blast of warm air hits me as I pass the threshold. Behind the reception desk, an older man with dark hair and kind eyes meets my gaze, a bright smile on his lips. Out of courtesy, I return the sentiment, though it feels forced and disingenuous.
“Good day,” he greets, straightening his spine. “How may I help you?”
Inching closer to the counter, I scan the desks behind him in search of Travis. A fresh dose of panic hits when I don’t find him. My rib cage feels too small, too tight in my chest, as my breaths come in short, labored bursts.
Maybe he’s in the back.
“Ma’am?”
My eyes snap back to the man at reception as he rises to his feet. His brows tug inward as he scrutinizes every line and twitch of my expression.
“Ma’am, are you alright?”
Undeterred by the panic coursing through my veins, I nod. “Yes,” I choke out, then clear my throat. “Yes,” I repeat with more confidence. “Is Officer Emerson available?” My hands wring the strap of my purse, the words on the note inside heavier than anything I’ve ever lifted.
“Officer Emerson is unavailable at this time.” He peers over his shoulder and surveys the active bullpen before returning his attention to me. “What is this regarding? I may be of assistance.”
Head shaking, I hug my purse closer to my chest. “No. I need to speak with Travis.”
His stare burns as concern gathers at the corners of his eyes. With slow, calculated steps, he walks around the desk, opens a door off to the side, and stands within arm’s reach. He regards me as an injured animal. Maybe I am.
Raising his hands slowly, he inches closer. “Ma’am, Officer Emerson is off duty. Whatever you need to speak with him about, any of us can help with.” His eyes shift toward the entrance for a split second and scan the lot. Before my next breath, sober brown eyes meet my stormy blues. “I’ll ask again. Are you alright?” The question a gentle staccato.
All this man wants to do is help. At the very least, he wants to figure out why I am ready to crawl out of my skin. Why I look pale as a ghost. Why I refuse to speak with anyone other than Travis.
My eyes drift to the badge on the left breast of his starched uniform shirt and lose focus. I wish I trusted him. I wish I had the courage to share what I discovered on my windshield less than an hour ago. To hand over the second note since the woman in the woods was unearthed. To explain my worst fear—that I will be next.
But this man is as nameless and foreign to me as the person who left the note on my car. He may have worked hard for his badge, he may have earned it with flying colors, but that still doesn’t change facts. I don’t know him. And right now, that means I can’t trust him.
Pinning my purse under my arm, I pluck a business card from the holder on the desk. Flipping it over, I grab a pen from the nearby cup and scribble my name and phone number on the back. I glance down at his name tag as I hand him the card.
“I appreciate your offer to help, Officer Fritz.”
He takes the card and reads what I wrote.
“If you’d please reach out to Officer Emerson and ask him to call Kirsten from Poke the Yolk.” I tug my jacket tighter, cross my arms over my chest, and step back. “I’m more comfortable speaking with him.”
Officer Fritz regards me, then looks back down at the card. Then does it again. After a beat of silence, he tucks the card in his palm and gives a subtle nod.
“I’ll let him know you stopped by.”
A faint dose of relief replaces some of the panic. “Thank you.”
I pivot, step toward the door, and inhale deeply. One foot in front of the other, I tell myself everything will be okay. I repeat the words until it’s all I hear in my head.
In no time, Travis will reach out. When I share the news of the notes, I expect nothing less than his anger and frustration. With some sicko on the loose, he will give me a hard time. Ask why I didn’t mention the first note sooner. Dole out his concerns for my safety. Preach how he can’t protect me if he doesn’t have all the details.
After he gets everything off his chest, that’s when the mood will shift. When realization will hit.
