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It’s silent in the car.
Thank fucking God.
I’m white-knuckling the steering wheel despite the drive being on the flattest, emptiest stretch of road between Vegas and home.
It took every ounce of self-control in my blood cells to hold my fists away from Martin’s face. I’ve never felt such a strong urge to beat a man to a bloody pulp in public, police badge be damned.
Part of me wonders if it’s too late to whip this car in reverse and go take care of this urge.
A soft sigh pours from the passenger seat next to me, and I’m reminded why I can’t.
“You okay?” I grumble. The intention is nice, but I’m still grinding my teeth too hard to sound like it.
“Yeah.”
I’m not convinced, but I say simply, “Good.”
More silence. I’m beginning to form a love-hate relationship with the quiet. I love that she’s not jumping on my back with a million questions I may or may not have answers to. I hate that I don’t know what’s going through her head.
I’m confused as to why I even care.
“I think…”
When she doesn’t finish her sentence, I glance over and see her leaning heavily on one arm, propped against the door. She’s chewing on her thumbnail—a nervous tic I don’t think she knows she has. “Think what?”
Clara frowns. “I think my dad screwed up my testimony.”
No shit. But I’m curious to know what’s brought this revelation on, so I do my best not to scare her off the subject. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I mean…” She blows out a heavy breath. “He was the arresting officer, right?”
“Right.”
“Why didn’t he recuse himself? Since family was involved.”
I start to say something, then shut my mouth. She’s still going.
“And even if he didn’t recuse himself for that reason, his superiors should have made him step down. But they didn’t.” Clara drums her fingers on the door.
“And you think that’s part of it.”
“I think that’s a flag for something. I don’t know what.” She sighs again. “I just… I remember how he’d ask me, over and over, what happened that night. And every time I got it wrong, he hit me.”
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel.Focus, man. Nothing you can do about that now.
Clara suddenly turns to look at me. “How can someone get a memory wrong?” It’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t answer. Her sigh whistles past her lips as she looks away again. “When I said what he wanted me to say, it stopped hurting. When I didn’t, the pain started again.”
The ten o’clock side of the steering wheel I’m squeezing to death, in my mind’s eye, is Martin’s scrawny neck.
The two o’clock side?Greg fucking Everett’s.
Let’s hope I don’t snap the wheel in half.
“Do you remember which part got you hurt?”
Clara chews the inside of her cheek for a moment. “Honestly, it’s all fuzzy. He hit me in the head a lot. I swear, I’m trying?—”
“I know.”
