Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(11)

I’m grateful I don’t recognize him. Then wonder if they picked him because, given my history, stern father figure is exactly the right approach to take.

“Evelyn Carter?” he asks. “I’m Detective Phil LeBlanc.”

I have this ridiculous impulse to wave. Years of social training kicking in. I constrain myself to a short nod.

“I understand you’re pregnant?” he says.

I nod again.

“Can I get you anything? A glass of water? Ginger ale? My wife always loved ginger ale.”

Definitely the concerned father. I smile at him. I can’t help myself. He doesn’t understand. They never understood. And now … My baby. My poor unborn child.

“I would like my phone call,” I say. “And I’m not saying another word until I get it.”

—

THERE ARE TWO people I could call. Option A is the most obvious, and the call I can’t bring myself to make. Option B will inform Option A of the situation anyway, so it hardly matters. Plus, Option B was my father’s best friend. He has plenty of reasons to doubt me, which is why I trust him more.

He doesn’t seem to be surprised to receive my call in the middle of the night. Because of his job, or because of how well he knows me? I walk him through the evening’s events, at least the bare bones. Conrad shot dead. Me in police custody.

“Have they arrested you?” Dick Delaney, one of Boston’s top criminal defense attorneys, asks me over the phone.

“I think so.” The events of recent months, let alone the past few hours, are starting to weigh heavily on me, dragging me down till everything has taken on a surreal quality. They never handcuffed me the first time. Never put me in a squad car, never drove me to the station for fingerprinting and processing and interrogation. I don’t understand these steps. It’s like watching an old movie, except the story line has been changed.

I don’t know how this story ends.

“Where are you?” Mr. Delaney asks.

“Police headquarters.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Nothing.”

“Keep it that way. They’re at the house now, working the crime scene?”

I nod into the phone, then remember I have to speak. “Yes. I’ve been fingerprinted. And my hands were swabbed. Blood. I had blood on my hands.”

“Probably testing for blood and GSR—gunshot residue,” Mr. Delaney mutters, but he seems to be talking more to himself than to me. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m tired.”

“Are you in pain, do you require medical assistance? How is the baby?”

“I’m okay.”

“You could be in shock. Perhaps you require medical observation.”

“I’m okay,” I say again.

Maybe that’s not the right answer. Maybe he’s trying to tell me something and I’m not getting it, because he falls quiet for a full minute or two.

“Evie—you’re going to have to spend at least one night in jail.”

I don’t know how to process that. Again, the story line is all wrong. I know shootings. I know blood and horror and loss.

The aftermath is not supposed to go like this.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Mr. Delaney is saying. “Nothing can happen till tomorrow, when the charges against you are formally presented in court. At that time, there’ll be an arraignment. I’ll be there to represent you, and hopefully get you released on bail. But again, none of this can happen before tomorrow.”

“They want my clothes,” I hear myself say. “Can they take my clothes?”

“Yes. They’re going to try to question you, Evie. Your job is to say nothing. Next, you will be taken to the county jail for overnight admittance. Given the severity of the charge, you’ll be held in isolation. But you’ll be formally processed. Your personal possessions will be taken and inventoried.”

I don’t have any. It occurs to me for the first time. I’d taken off my coat, set down my purse. I don’t have my cell phone. Not even my wallet. I feel a rising bubble of hysteria.

“They’ll take your clothes as evidence,” Mr. Delaney continues, “and hand them over to a waiting officer.”

My escort, Officer Bob.

“In return, you’ll get an orange jumpsuit.”

I don’t speak, but I feel a giggle rising again in the back of my throat. A prison jumpsuit. Like Orange Is the New Black. I’ll be the new girl. Fresh meat. Until I win them over with my story of woe. And get a cool new lesbian roommate. Or maybe I’ll be the muscle, taking some delicate, fragile thing under my wing. After all, two shootings to my credit. I can get double teardrop tattoos on my cheek, swagger across the prison yard with my soon-to-be enormously pregnant belly. Mess with that, bitches.

I’m not doing well. I’m going to start laughing. And once I do, I’ll never stop.

My poor baby, my poor, poor baby.

Conrad.

Mr. Delaney promises to meet me at the courthouse. He reminds me to say nothing. He tells me I have medical rights as well as the right to speak to my attorney at any time. You’re going to get through this, he says gently. Hang tough. Be smart.

Like last time?

When the call ends, the older detective returns. He gives me a disappointed look. I’ve ruined his interrogation, proven that I’m no fun at all.