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The Detective shakes his head dismissively. “We’ve already spoken with Mr. Jacobson. He has an alibi and witnesses. He was doing inventory at the restaurant until two in the morning, with other employees present. He didn’t leave the building until then.”
“I thought he was going to Aurora?” I question, trying to remember every word of our phone conversation. “Paige works weekends at the club with two other girls, Natalie and Raven. What about them?”
“Paige was alone, Ms. Matthews. We have no reason to believe anyone else was with her that night.”
“What makes you so sure?” I can feel my anger rising, and I run a hand nervously through my long purple hair. It’s like he’s already made up his mind. There’s no investigation. Paige is already guilty.
“I want you to see something,” the Detective offers, his fingers clicking away at his keyboard again. He reaches over and turns his monitor screen toward me. The screen is dark, except for the illuminated video playback buttons at the bottom. I swallow hard. Whatever this is, I’m not ready for it.
The road is dark, two lanes, with a strip of grass on either side bordered by pine forest. Red and blue lights strobe bright against the endless darkness, lit by a single dim streetlight and the headlights of a vehicle parked nearly sideways in the road.
A light blue, ’82 Ford Bronco.
My heart races in my chest. There’s no mistaking that truck. There’s a small dent in the back fender where Paige tapped a parking meter learning how to parallel park. A surf sticker on the back window for a board shop in Gray’s Cove. When it needed a paint job, I chose that color, an ice blue with silver metallic flake, far from anything that may have been stock in ’82. It’s Paige.
There’s something in the road, illuminated by the Bronco’s headlights. A figure lying motionless, in a green hoodie and jeans. Paige kneels beside her, bloodstains on her clothes, attempting CPR. I lean closer to the screen. Paige was trying to save her. The officer moves forward, shouting. Without the audio, I can’t hear what he says. Why isn’t he helping?
He pulls his gun, and I gasp, my fingers tightening on the edge of the desk.
Paige looks up from the fallen woman, continuing compressions as she argues, even at gunpoint, her head shaking furiously. Tears well in my eyes at her desperation, her unwillingness to give up. The officer fires a shot into the grass beside her. A warning. She reluctantly stops and raises her hands. I can see the blood on her skin, on her clothes, tears streaming down her face. She glances down at the woman again, and back at the officer. Slow, tense seconds pass as Paige stands frozen, and the officer continues to shout. I can see her mind working, and I curse softly because I know what’s coming next.
She runs.
Paige was on the high school track team, in addition to being a fearless and skilled surfer who frequented the big wave breaks. She’s quick, and her stamina is unmatched. She keeps the Bronco between the officer and herself, ducking beneath the hood as he fires offanother shot. This time, it’s not a warning. When the time is right, she leaps into the driver’s seat.
The officer steps back against the front of his car, the flare from his pistol flashing again and again as the back window of the Bronco shatters. The backup lights flash red a moment before Paige ducks down, and floors it.
The Bronco slams into the officer, pinning him to the hood of his own car. The gun falls from his hand as his body goes limp, and the Bronco surges forward. She swerves, fishtailing across the road, and takes off into the night. As the taillights fade into the distance, I can see them both. The officer draped across the hood of his car, and the woman in the road. Both still.
Detective Phillips clicks the video off, and maneuvers to another file. I can feel tears running down my face, and reach up to brush them away.
“I… um…” I clear my throat, trying to pull myself together. “Sorry, that was really hard to watch.”
“Her name was Rose,” the Detective says, and I want to stop him. “She was a cashier at Danny’s Grocery, and had just gotten off work. She was going to meet her fiancee so they could ride home together. She was concerned about the environment and always rode her bike. Even in the rain.”
I close my eyes. Fuck.
“Officer Henrich was with the department eight years next month. Married. Two kids. Good guy. I knew him personally. Our kids play T-ball together,” the Detective continues.
“This isn’t like Paige. She would never…”
“It’s not over yet,” the Detective says, cutting me off as he navigates to another file on the screen. Another video appears, and I look at him in question. His face betrays nothing,emotionless, like the videos could be an ad for a new pizza restaurant. He meets my gaze. “I just want you to know what we do. So we’re all on the same page.” I nod reluctantly.
He plays the next video, and I recognize the bridge. Tears burn in my eyes, my breathing shallow and labored. I really don’t want to see this one. Police dash cam again, and from the car’s position, I can see others beside it. A solid line of police cars forming into an impenetrable wall at the base of the bridge. Officers stand behind extended car doors, guns raised, fingers on the trigger. After about a minute, vehicle headlights brighten the crest of the bridge, followed soon after by the Bronco.
The truck lurches, smoke curling from the tires as the brakes are applied. But before it can come to a complete stop, it accelerates, serving out in an arc before slamming into the guardrail. The force of the hit snaps the railing, and the Bronco plummets off the side and into the bay.
I look away, unable to stop the anguished cry that tumbles from between my parted lips. My heart thunders against my rib cage, threatening to tear through and tumble onto the cold white tile of the sterile police station. The Detective shuts the video off and swivels the monitor back to its original position.
“I didn’t know,” I stammer, putting my head in my hands to keep it from falling apart. “When you said she went off the bridge, I thought it was an accident. I didn’t know she…” I can’t say the words.
“I didn’t do this to make things harder for you,” Detective Phillips states. “When someone acts out of character, against everything you know and believe, it’s hard to accept the truth unless you can see it. I had to show you this so you can choose a side.Officer Henrich was on his way home when he pulled up to the scene of the incident. Paige didn’t call it in. Maybe she didn’t have access to a phone, I don’t know. When he tried to intervene, she became combative, and he radioed in that he could smell alcohol.”
I shake my head. “That’s impossible. Paige doesn’t drink.”
“On this night, she did,” he corrects with a stern confidence. “If we find Paige, she will have to answer for this. If she contacts you, in any way, it is absolutely imperative that you facilitate her surrender.” The Detective pushes a tissue box across his desk in my direction, but I shake my head. I need to feel the tears to know it’s real.
“You have divers searching the bottom of the bay for her body, and you’re worried that I’m going to harbor a fugitive?” I ask incredulously.
