Reputation(95)

I glance at the phone, feeling curious . . . about more than just the texts. What if there’s a message buried in there that indicates culpability? Maybe I have it all wrong—and she and Patrick planned something together? But no. I don’t trust that Patrick guy, but I do trust Kit. I really do. Yes, she was hiding the Patrick thing from me . . . which is disappointing. But she doesn’t have it in her to kill. And she’d certainly never devise a scheme to run away, leave her daughters.

Tires crunch. In the rearview, I notice my dad’s BMW pulling into the lot. My father’s, Sienna’s, and Aurora’s faces flash behind the windows, their expressions grave. My heart aches for all of them. I know I should wait with them for Kit’s hearing, except it feels so inactive. I want to do something beyond sit on a bench and wait for a judge to decide Kit’s fate. I need to prove something.

I scan the parking lot. Lines of police cars flank the perimeter, but what I figure are the officers’ civilian vehicles sit farther to the back near a small grassy island and a picnic table. In a sea of vehicles, I instantly locate the white Subaru that Ollie and Laura Apatrea climbed out of the morning of the funeral. He’s here, then. In this very building. Working on the weekend. A shiver runs from my neck all the way to my tailbone.

I get out of the car, but instead of heading toward the main entrance with my family, I walk to the Subaru and peer inside. The inside has been freshly vacuumed; not a single receipt or gum wrapper remains in the cupholders. The baby seat in the back looks like it’s just come out of the box. If Ollie tracked evidence into his vehicle the night he killed Greg, he cleaned it up. Luminol spray would show stray droplets of blood, but it wasn’t like I had access to that right now. Maybe I could get access, somehow? Maybe Colton Browne would have an idea?

I stride back to the station. When my phone rings, I pick it up without checking the caller ID. “Willa.” It’s Paul. “I just heard about Kit. Where are you?”

Guilt stabs through me. So Kit is news, then. I feel bad that I haven’t told Paul myself. “At the station,” I admit.

“Do you want company?”

“Wait, no,” I say. My mind scrambles. It’s better if I work alone with this one. Paul was helpful with tailing Kit last night, but this Ollie stuff . . . I don’t want to drag him into something dangerous. “I’m about to go into a magistrate meeting. Can I call you later?”

“Oh.” Paul sounds a little disappointed. “Yeah. Sure.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling awkward and shitty, because all Paul has done for the past week is help me, and I don’t want him to think I’m pushing him away. “I do want you here,” I add. “There are too many people here as it is. I’ll just call you and let you know how it goes, and then we’ll think about next steps.” I’m careful to use we—to let him know that he’s still included.

But I’ve lied. I didn’t want him to stay away because of the crowd. I didn’t want his company because I have no intention of going into the magistrate’s office. And, as luck would have it, when I push into the lobby, it’s empty. I guess the magistrate was ready for my family early. This rules out asking Browne about luminol, but maybe I can explore another avenue now that I’m free to investigate without my family asking questions.

I approach the front desk and clear my throat. The officer working there has the face of a high school kid playing dress-up in a cop uniform. “Is there a larger restroom than the public one in the lobby?” I ask, trying to sound sheepish. “Maybe something with a room that gives someone a little privacy?” I mean, there’s no way I can just ask to see Officer Apatrea. He’d see that coming from a mile away.

The kid looks at me quizzically, and so I add, sotto voce, “I’m waiting to hear the results of my sister’s bail hearing, but I’m a nursing mother, and I really need to pump.” I don’t know what made me think of leaky boobs being the very thing that would embarrass a kid this age the most, but by the mortified look on his face, I think I’ve hit the jackpot.

He tugs uncomfortably at his collar. “Well, it’s against station policy to let civilians behind the gated door without special permission.”

“Please?” And then, yes, I touch my breasts. I’m fully against this sort of manipulation, normally, but I figure it’s an emergency.

The kid is turning red. He thumbs the door. “There’s a handicapped stall in the women’s room for the staff. We’ll have to check on you every ten minutes or so, but is that good enough?”

“Perfect,” I shoot him a grateful look. Something else buoys my spirits, too: Behind him, on a printed chart, are the cube and office numbers for everyone who works in the building. Oliver Apatrea is there in plain, bold ink. Office 205.

Now I know where to go.





42





WILLA


SATURDAY, MAY 6, 2017


I climb to the second floor. No one else in this precinct works on Saturdays, it seems, as every door I pass is tightly locked. Some of the hallway lights aren’t even on. But the door to room 205 stands open. I inch against the wall outside it, trying not to breathe. Is Ollie in there? Is this crazy?

After a few seconds, I muster the courage to peek into the room. Ollie’s chair is empty. Light from a single banker’s lamp shines on his desk. My pulse rocks even in my eyeballs.