War(18)

I exhaled, some of the tension I hadn’t realized was there leaving me.

“Can I go, then?” I asked tentatively.

The detective nodded, stuffed his papers into a folder, and then stood. I did too and then walked toward the door on legs stiff from lack of movement. When I finally made it to the door, he stepped in front of me.

“Wait. I just have one more question,” he said.

As he spoke, something in his expression changed, got sharper, almost predatory. Different than before. Our conversations hadn’t been pleasant, and I wasn’t sure much could be in this small, windowless room. But the room was different now, and I became much more aware of the tight, airless feeling in the space.

I swallowed. “What’s your question?”

“All that time. Between now and the shooting. You were just driving around?” he said.

“Yes. Well, no,” I said.

My skin burned, and my face felt hot with the weight of my lie and my nervousness, a feeling his intent gaze only increased.

He could see my nerves, too, or see something, and he watched with an expression that told me I wouldn’t be leaving this room until he had decided what. Before I could stop them, the words began to tumble out of my mouth.

“I was just so scared. I didn’t know what to do,” I said, talking fast.

And I hadn’t known what to. That, at least, was God’s honest truth. A tiny sliver of it, but still the truth. Too bad the technical truth didn’t alleviate the guilt that gnawed at my gut or soothe my shot nerves.

Guilt and nerves aside, I needed to shut up, so I snapped my jaws closed and pressed my lips together, needing the physical action to keep the words that threatened to spill out inside where they belonged. After I’d managed to keep silent for more than a second, I watched him closely, trying to figure out how he was responding. His face gave me no clue as to whether or not he believed me, which made my mind race even more. I fought the urge to speak. I could burst into tears, talk about how overwhelmed I was by emotion and nerves and fear. By shock. Something told me every word I spoke only condemned me more, told me that if I cried, I would lose him completely.

So I stayed quiet.

And so did he.

With each second that passed, the moment became more tense, and then even more tense, so much so I knew that any second I would give, that the facade would break and the words I didn’t want to speak would come out.

“Thank you, Ms. Meadows.”

I nearly jumped at the sound of his voice, but I held myself together, even as he again went silent, watched me through now-suspicious eyes.

Again, I managed to wait until he spoke. “I’ll be in touch if I need you.”

“Thank you, Detective,” I said, surprised at the calm voice that came out of me, one that didn’t give away how hard my heart beat, or the panicky nerves that were gathering in my stomach.

“I’ll have someone escort you home,” he said.

“No. I’m fine,” I said.

He frowned and then looked me up and down, lingering on my hips in a way that didn’t at all strike me as appreciative. “That’s a long walk.”

“I’m up to it. The fresh air will do me some good,” I said frostily, grateful my umbrage had taken away some of the nerves.

“I’ll call you if I have more questions,” he said.

I really, really hoped that call didn’t come, something I obviously couldn’t share with him. So instead I nodded and then walked down the hallway he had led me through and toward the front doors.

With each step, I waited for something to try to stop me, but no one did, and when I finally broke through those doors and out into the late-afternoon sun, I breathed deep, the band that had been around my lungs loosening, the crawling claustrophobia of that awful room falling away with each step I took.

I didn’t look back at the police station, and instead made my way home, wondering what had happened.

Yes, it had been Tiffany’s idea that I go there, but it had ultimately been my decision, and I had been intent on telling them everything.

Yet…I hadn’t.

I hadn’t told them about Priest. Hadn’t breathed a word. I didn’t know why.

The lead-up had been easy, telling them how I was covering for a friend, describing what I could remember of the people at the wedding. All of those facts had come out easily, as had the part about driving away. But when it had been time to tell them about my unexpected and uninvited passenger, I had clammed up.

Maybe it was a burning desire not to be complicit in whatever crimes Priest had committed that day, the crimes he had undoubtedly committed before.

Or maybe I was just afraid.

That was it, I decided.

Priest knew my name, had been in my home. And he was dangerous, so I knew that even without that information, finding me would be no problem for him.