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“I-I don’t know. I didn’t even go in.”
“Think.” I try to calm my voice. Work to slow my thoughts. But sirens scream around us, cops push spectators back, and media vans set up shop and provide the country with a live feed of every tense moment. “Close your eyes and think. You were walking up the stairs. You were with Mayet and Aubs. Were you all carrying shopping bags?”
Fresh tears squeeze past her closed eyelids. “Yes, all of us bought a gift.”
“Good. So your bags are hitting your knees as you walk. Aubree’s probably talking some shit, because she likes to do that. Minka’s rolling her eyes. She’s extra cranky, because she had to go shopping.” Calm. Cool. Slow. “You didn’t go in, but you looked through the doors, Seraphina. How many people did you see?”
“Thirty?” she chokes out. “Maybe forty.”
“Good work. Okay.” I let my breath out on an exhale that flutters her hair. “Where is everyone? Who is standing where?”
“Doctors Mayet and Emeri walked straight ahead,” she whimpers. Slowly, her eyes flicker open and move to my right. To Fletch. “I stopped on the front steps and answered my phone. But the doctors walked straight ahead. They joined the shortest line, which was on,” she moves her left hand, “that side. And there were desks over,” again, she gestures, “that way, to their left.”
“Where was security?”
“I don’t…” Her jaw quivers. “I don’t know. I don’t remember seeing them when we got here.”
“Who is causing all of this?”
She shakes her head, fast and jerky. “I didn’t see. But I heard a man shouting while I was on the phone.”
“Inside the bank?” Fletch asks. “You heard him from out here?”
“Yes. He saidfix it.”
“Where did the voice come from?” I step to the left to steal back her attention. “Minka walked straight ahead to the tellers. Desks on the left. Which direction was the shouting coming from?”
“Also from the left? Maybe?” She scrunches her face, like it’ll help her recall. “I don’t know. The other police already asked me these questions.”
“Hostage Affairs are on the way,” Fletch reads from his phone screen. “It’s already on the fucking news.” His gaze whips up when Fifi’s breath catches on a sob.
“I was supposed to be in there too,” she cries. “I was walking right beside them, but I stopped to take a call.”
“That call might have saved your life.” Compassionate in a way I haven’t seen in weeks, Fletch reaches for her hand and tugs her in until she’s wrapped tight against his chest. He makes her look tiny, and holds her while she cries.
But I don’t find comfort in his words. I don’t feel relief. Or safety.
All I hear is that everyone inside is likely to die.
“I’m going closer.” I turn on my heels and start toward the mobile command center set up thirty feet from the front doors.
The truck is bulletproof and houses a vast array of technology that is supposed to help de-escalate a tense situation. But the cops that mill around the area are in heavy padding. Their radios chatter. Guns are at the ready.
And my fucking wife is unprotected, with a bleeding disorder that makes her the most vulnerable person in that bank.
“Detective Malone.” I present my badge for the officer in charge and look toward the building. “What do we know so far?”
He chuckles low in his throat. “We know you’re a detective outta downtown, and your wife is among the hostages.” He reaches out and claps me on the shoulder, so pain slices through my still-healing wound and sets my blood on fire. “You’re kidding yourself if you think we don’t already know a cop’s other half is in there, Detective. Word on the radio is you’ve been displaced and told not to be here.”
“Yeah?”Fucking Bower!“And you’re kidding yourself if you expect me to walk away. I’m more than a decade on the job, Officer. Level-three detective. I get the job done every single fucking time… so either you use me, or I work against you. But no matter how this goes down, my wife is coming out of there safe, and with me.”
His eyes, chestnut in color and small compared to the rest of his face, jump between mine. He looks me up and down, as though wondering who will win if we go hand to hand. But finally, he sucks on his bottom lip and shakes his head. “I don’t want future beef with you, Detective. But orders are orders.” He nods for one of his colleagues to come closer. “I’ve been told to turn you away or detain you. The choice is yours, but we willnotproceed as long as you’re here.”
“Motherfucker.” I pull back from the other officer’s hand when he reaches out. “I’m not leaving!”
“Hey!” Tim’s voice, booming and commanding, has both officers glancing up.
Tim isn’t a cop. He has no authority here. And yet, he’s not only past the barricades that the rest of Copeland’s residents are kept behind, but he’s within sight of the bank’s front doors.
