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ButNumber Oneis not someone I’ve ever seen, so I lick my lips and rasp, “No.”
“Good. Alright.” Archer presses the button again. “Number One, step back. Number Two, take two steps forward.”
I try to focus only on the man whose number has been called. On Number Two when he moves forward, and Number Three when I dismiss the former and Archer calls the next. But my gaze jumps to Seven and his sharp eyes that burn me where I sit.
I will myself to focus on Three. Then Four when it’s his turn. But Seven scalds me, and each time I let my gaze stray, I lock on to his eyes and know he’s one of the four from Monday night.
“Him.”
Archer’s determined focus whips around to me. “Number Four?”
I shake my head and sit taller again, to allow my lungs room to expand, and for air to fill them up. “Number Seven.”
Drake comes to stand on my left, and though I don’t turn to face him, I still see him in my peripherals. I see his sharp jaw and unshaven chin. The regrowth is a day old at best. Maybe two. His hair has dried, but it sits exactly in the direction he combed it before we left the hotel.
His brows pinch and his hand comes up to roll his bottom lip. “Seven?” he clarifies. “You sure?”
I swallow the dread in my throat and sniff, though I’m not sure anything is leaking. “Yeah. He was there the other night. I’m sure of it.”
“Shooter?” Archer demands. Then he presses the button, “Number Four, step back in line. Number Seven.” His change of order ruffles feathers on the other side of the glass as Five and Six jerk to the side and look at the man they’ve been skipped over for. “Step forward.”
He releases the button and studies the side of my face so I feel his warmth. “Make sure, Rory. Where do you recognize him from? What was he doing on the night of Lorenzo Lombardo’s murder?”
I close my eyes, which is probably counterproductive and frustrating to the police, but I remember back to the worst night of my life and replay what I saw. The shadows filling the street, and the streetlights battling to win in the winter evening. I remember the back of a man’s shoulders. The shooter, the one Lorenzo cried ‘Vallejo.’ But then I shift my mental gaze to his right and tilt my head as I remember. He hit Lorenzo, over and over and over again. His hair was short, and his skin, clean shaven. I don’t know what color eyes he had, it was too dark and he was too far away. But I open mine now and look down at the prisoner’s knuckles, scabbed and sore, and white today as he clenches his fists.
“He was the one who punched Lorenzo,” I whisper for Archer. “I remember very clearly, he was standing on Vallejo’s right. On Lorenzo’s left. He hit Lorenzo three times before the other one shot him.”
“Well done.” Archer gifts me with a pleased smile and casts his gaze back to the room. “Anyone else?”
So I follow his focus and re-check Five and Six to make sure I haven’t skipped them naively. I check the shapes of their jaws. Their hair. Their eyes. I recall again what I saw on Monday, and I try to place their faces. But I come up with nothing. Shaking my head, I look to Eight, but it takes only a moment for me to dismiss him, too. He’s the wrong shape. Wrong size. Wrong weight. It’s all wrong. “Number Seven only,” I mumble. Then I draw a deep breath and noisily exhale again until Drake’s hand settles on my shoulder and makes me jump in surprise.
I look to my left and follow the long lines of his body up to his face. But he’s not looking at me. He stares through the window with an expression that immediately contradicts his gentle touch.
“Number Seven,” Archer announces through the speaker box. “Step back and rejoin your line. Officer Clay, please escort the men back to holding.”
“Hey Aurora?” Seven’s smug tone steals the oxygen from my lungs and the strength from my bones. I swing my eyes from Drake and back to the man who licks his lips. “You live at 8496 Cardale Street, Copeland City. You’re your mother’s only child, though your father has a couple more on the side.”
“Hey!” Archer barks through the speaker. “Officer Clay!”
Clay jumps forward to wrestle his prisoner back into line. But the man continues anyway. “You attend NYU, and live in a shitty walk-up apartment with your cheating boyfriend and his college professor.”
Surprised, Drake’s gaze jumps down to lock on to the side of my face.
“You sat the MCATS in September, and you’re enrolled in medical school in Copeland for the next four years.”
“Come on.” I don’t even realize that tears burn my eyes until Drake slips his hands beneath my arms and lifts me from the table to place me on my feet. “We’re leaving.”
“Your mom is dying!” Number Seven shouts, even as Archer and Fletcher bound out of our room and dash through the next door. “She’s all skin and bones, Swanson. She might even die in the time it takes to book me. She’ll definitely kick the bucket before this goes to trial.”
“Enough!” Archer booms. “Officer Clay, move the others back to their holding cell. Now!”
“He knows about my mom.” A terrified sob breaks free of my throat as Drake bundles me up and forces me into the bullpen. “He knows about my mom!” I smack his hands away when they remain firm. Unyielding. “Drake!”
“He’s in custody,” he bites out, whipping another door open as cops glance up from their work and watch us. He tosses me in so my pinned leg smarts from the jolt and nausea swirls in my gut. But he doesn’t release my arm, so when my legs fail and would have me dropping to the floor, he keeps me up and saves me from another concussion.
Slamming the door shut and turning back to face me, he pins my hands close and glares when I continue to twist and fight.
“He’s not leaving this station, Aurora. Your mom is safe.”
