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I get out of the car, but instead of heading toward the main entrance with my family, I walk to the Subaru and peer inside. Theinside has been freshly vacuumed; not a single receipt or gum wrapper remains in the cupholders. The baby seat in the back looks like it’s just come out of the box. If Ollie tracked evidence into his vehicle the night he killed Greg, he cleaned it up. Luminol spray would show stray droplets of blood, but it wasn’t like I had access to that right now. Maybe I couldgetaccess, somehow? Maybe Colton Browne would have an idea?
I stride back to the station. When my phone rings, I pick it up without checking the caller ID. “Willa.” It’s Paul. “I just heard about Kit. Where are you?”
Guilt stabs through me. So Kitisnews, then. I feel bad that I haven’t told Paul myself. “At the station,” I admit.
“Do you want company?”
“Wait, no,” I say. My mind scrambles. It’s better if I work alone with this one. Paul was helpful with tailing Kit last night, but this Ollie stuff... I don’t want to drag him into something dangerous. “I’m about to go into a magistrate meeting. Can I call you later?”
“Oh.” Paul sounds a little disappointed. “Yeah. Sure.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling awkward and shitty, because all Paul has done for the past week is help me, and I don’t want him to think I’m pushing him away. “Idowant you here,” I add. “There are too many people here as it is. I’ll just call you and let you know how it goes, and then we’ll think about next steps.” I’m careful to usewe—to let him know that he’s still included.
But I’ve lied. I didn’t want him to stay away because of the crowd. I didn’t want his company because I have no intention of going into the magistrate’s office. And, as luck would have it, when I push into the lobby, it’s empty. I guess the magistrate was ready for my family early. This rules out asking Browne about luminol, but maybe I can explore another avenue now that I’m free to investigate without my family asking questions.
I approach the front desk and clear my throat. The officer working there has the face of a high school kid playing dress-up in a copuniform. “Is there a larger restroom than the public one in the lobby?” I ask, trying to sound sheepish. “Maybe something with a room that gives someone a little privacy?” I mean, there’s no way I can just ask to see Officer Apatrea. He’d see that coming from a mile away.
The kid looks at me quizzically, and so I add, sotto voce, “I’m waiting to hear the results of my sister’s bail hearing, but I’m a nursing mother, and I really need to pump.” I don’t know what made me think of leaky boobs being the very thing that would embarrass a kid this age the most, but by the mortified look on his face, I think I’ve hit the jackpot.
He tugs uncomfortably at his collar. “Well, it’s against station policy to let civilians behind the gated door without special permission.”
“Please?” And then, yes, I touch my breasts. I’m fully against this sort of manipulation, normally, but I figure it’s an emergency.
The kid is turning red. He thumbs the door. “There’s a handicapped stall in the women’s room for the staff. We’ll have to check on you every ten minutes or so, but is that good enough?”
“Perfect,” I shoot him a grateful look. Something else buoys my spirits, too: Behind him, on a printed chart, are the cube and office numbers for everyone who works in the building. Oliver Apatrea is there in plain, bold ink.Office 205.
Now I know where to go.
42
WILLA
SATURDAY, MAY 6, 2017
I climb to the second floor. No one else in this precinct works on Saturdays, it seems, as every door I pass is tightly locked. Some of the hallway lights aren’t even on. But the door to room 205 stands open. I inch against the wall outside it, trying not to breathe. Is Ollie in there? Is this crazy?
After a few seconds, I muster the courage to peek into the room. Ollie’s chair is empty. Light from a single banker’s lamp shines on his desk. My pulse rocks even in my eyeballs.
Slowly, I tiptoe inside. Pictures of Ollie’s son fill the bookshelves. One newborn shot, wrinkled and baby bird–mouthed on a pale blue blanket. Another shows Ollie proudly holding the baby against his chest, his big hand splayed along the baby’s tiny back. A more recent one on his desk shows the baby sitting up, giving the camera a gummy smile and popping his big, brilliant, blue eyes wide.
I mean—thoseeyes.Of course Ollie knows it.
A click sounds, and I freeze, my fingers spread wide at my sides. Nothing.You’re okay,I tell myself.Nothing’s going to hurt you.
Drawing deep, even breaths, I head for Ollie’s desk. File folderslie in disarrayed stacks, some of them open, some of them fastened closed. Ollie has two computer monitors, though they both show Excel spreadsheets that mean nothing to me. If only I could click over to his e-mail.
A clock ticks on the wall. When will the young cop at the front desk come looking for me? When will they send out an APB that the woman who’d received special permission to use a breast pump in privacy has gone missing?
I scan the room. Ollie’s police cap sits atop a small filing tray. There’s an assortment of pens splayed near the keyboard. Three mostly empty coffee cups perch near the window. I lunge for a red ceramic mug with the Starbucks logo emblazoned on the side and drop it into my tote. It has DNA on it for sure. I could find a lab to analyze it, and then get my hands on the forensics report of the crime scene. Ollie couldn’t have cleaned upeverythingas well as he cleaned the murder weapon. Something has to turn up.
I back up, itching to leave, when a gaping file folder near Ollie’s second monitor catches my eye. There’s a name written on the top tab.Myname.Willa Manning.
I do a double take. What isthis? I move toward it. With one trembling pointer finger, I open it up. And...
“Excuse me?”
Ollie’s bulky shape fills the doorway. I jerk away from his desk, hiding my hands behind my back. A strange, high-pitched, borderline hysterical laugh comes from somewhere deep inside me. “Um, hi. I... I was just leaving.”
