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“Jennifer,” he shouts down the hall, waiting for a response, but receives only silence. He curses, and stands from his desk. “I have to pull it from evidence. I’ll be right back.” He strides out of the room, and I stare after him, leaning back in my chair.
My gaze roams the room, settling on the piles of papers on his desk. I glance back over my shoulder to see if anyone is looking, then stand to thumb through the files. I’m down half the stack when suddenly I still, brushing my finger over the tab that readsPaige Matthews.
Inside the manilla folder are several typed reports, photocopies of personal accounts, photos of Paige and me, her high school transcripts, my juvenile record, transfer forms from our foster homes, and death certificates from ourparents… Our whole life is in that folder. I pile everything back together, and a small piece of torn paper slides out onto the desk. I pick it up, frowning as I study the handwritten note.
TRV759
I have no idea what that means. It looks like a tag number, but it’s not from the Bronco. Down the hallway, I hear the stern booming voice of the Detective as he approaches. I slide the paper into my pocket, and settle back into my chair.
“Sorry for the wait,” he says, rounding the side of his desk and handing me a plastic bag containing my phone. “I really am sorry about your sister, and thank you for your compliance in this investigation.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” I begin. “The investigation isn’t over. I have information that needs to be considered. You said Evan Jacobson had an airtight alibi the night of the incident, and I have proof that it’s bullshit.”
His eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve been doing my own research, and spoken to everyone who worked at the Sandbar that night. Here’s what I’ve realized,” I explain, holding up a finger for each of my points. “One: Evan lied about Paige’s drinking, and I’ve found several people who corroborate her sobriety. Two: Evan wouldn’t have lined up inventory on a Friday night when he has standing weekend commitments at the Aurora. There’s no way. Three: Paige called me from work that night and said she was going out with Evan later. He didn’t plan to be separated from her all night. Four: I have an eyewitness account that Evan was drunk and driving his Tesla that night. Throughout my extensive search this week, I have yet to see that car anywhere. Five: I have apartial confession from Evan that needs further exploration. And six: I found a-”
“Wait, hold on. Full stop,” he says, holding out his hands like he’s directing traffic. “You’ve been questioning witnesses in an active investigation, and believe Evan Jacobson is responsible? Mayor Jacobson’s son?” He questions incredulously.
“Yes,” I continue. “I’ve found-”
“It doesn’t matter what you’ve found. This is not your job, Skye. It’s ours. Unless you go through the proper channels, everything you’ve discovered is null and void, and only served to warn off any truth we may have been able to retrieve through viable procedure,” he lectures, his voice rising. I’m in shock. I bet on the Detective, and lost. He doesn’t care.
“Listen, I’m not just going to sit back andnotsearch for her, andnottry to prove that the Paige I knew, that I grew up with, is the monster you all make her out to be,” I argue. “I have proof that she’s not.” I stand from my chair, and the Detective stands from his, reaching for his phone.
“Enough!” He shouts.
“Not nearly,” I shout back, anger and disdain punctuating each word. I reach into my pocket, and in a single quick motion, the Detective pulls his gun and levels it at my head. My eyes widen as I slowly remove my hand from my pocket, holding up the fragile silver chain of yellow roses in front of the gun barrel. “Whoa, Detective,” I urge. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. I just want to clear Paige’s name.”
“Time for you to go, Ms. Matthews,” he says, watching me through the iron sights.
“I found this in Evan’s Tahoe. This is the same necklaceRose always wore, which you can see in the photo displayed at the Rose Garden memorial at Danny’s.”
“That’s the thing about proper procedure,” he continues. “I have no proof that’s where it was found, that it belonged to Evan, or Rose.”
“Isn’t that what forensic science is for? Don’t you have a lab you can send it to? And in the meantime, maybe you could further investigate Evan-”
He shakes his head. “That necklace is common around here. It was sold as part of a school fundraiser three years in a row. My wife has one just like it, and you can probably find one at any of the local pawn shops.” A muscle ticks in his jaw, and he lowers his weapon, sliding it back into the holster. “Please leave the premises before I have you removed.”
My mouth falls open. “I just gave you solid information to doubt your own research. People lied-”
“GET OUT!” He screams, and I toss the necklace at him. I want to toss more than that, but he rounds the desk and grabs my arms, forcing them behind my back. Holding me captive, he shoves me forward, out the door, and down the corridor. I stumble down the steps at a breakneck pace, my boots wet and slipping on the tile. When we reach the front of the building, the doors slide open, and he thrusts me out into the rain.
Water streams down my face as I turn back toward him in shock. “This isn’t over.”
“If I see you near this office again, I’m arresting you,” he promises, then walks away.
I glance over at the officer standing beside the metal detectors, his hand resting on the gun at his side.
Fuck this.
I stride off into the storm, across the parking lot, and back toward the beach. My hands fist at my sides and I want to break something. I want to break him. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t want evidence. Certainly not evidence that may implicate the son of the man who signs his paycheck. I should have known I couldn’t trust him.
I start running, hard and fast, like I’m being chased, my boots splashing in the torrent of water streaming down the sidewalk. My tears mix with the rain as I ascend the bridge, chest heaving as I struggle to breathe. I reach the top near the temporary barricade, orange cones overturned with caution tape billowing madly in the wind.
I walk around the barricade to the break in the guardrail, looking out at the turbulent toss of the bay beneath the bridge. The sky is so dark it’s nearly black, coloring the ocean the same until it’s all nearly a single shade of endless gray. I step up to the edge of the concrete, the wind plastering my clothes to my skin, my hair tumbling behind me.
I lost Paige forever, right here. Driven from the bridge in fear, she believed this was her only escape. She’s gone. Really gone. And I couldn’t save her.
