The Colton County Sheriff’s Office is located roughly forty-five minutes south of Alden. That’s where they take me, but they don’t put me in one of the holding cells. Instead, they stick me in one of the interview rooms—a plain bright room with a metal table and two metal chairs and a security camera positioned in the corner of the ceiling—and they shackle my wrists to a ring in the top of the table and leave me for an hour or two until the door opens again and Sheriff Gilbert steps inside.
He doesn’t speak as he shuts the door. Doesn’t even clear his throat as he glances at the security camera. He simply steps over to the table, pulls out the chair, and sits down. He has some documents in his hands—papers, photographs—and he sets them face down on the tabletop.
I’m wearing my sneakers but no socks. A pebble must have found its way into the right sneaker because it’s been bugging me the past hour, but there’s nothing I can do about it. They let me keep on the sweatpants and T-shirt, though of course they searched me before cuffing me and escorting me down the hallway toward the apartment building stairs.
Sheriff Gilbert says, “Who are you?”
He’s an older man in his late fifties, his white hair buzzed, his face tanned and worn. But he has kind eyes, which is maybe one of the reasons he keeps getting reelected as sheriff.
When I don’t answer, he shifts in his chair, clears his throat.
“We know your real name isn’t Jen Young. Well, at least we’re pretty sure that’s the case. Your ID looks legit, and you come up in the system, but I’ve got people doing research. This day and age, you can’t just step out of nowhere. There’s a social media footprint.”
Atticus gave me this identity. He has numerous resources at his disposal, and I’m pretty confident the ID has all the bases covered, but surely something will crack if they dig hard enough.
Sheriff Gilbert clears his throat again.
“You had a Mossberg 590A1 shotgun in your possession, along with a SIG Sauer P320 Nitron Compact and a SIG TACOPS 1911, not to mention a SOG tactical knife. I respect the Second Amendment as much as the next warm-blooded American, but that sure does seem a bit excessive for a girl your age.”
I doubt he’d say the same thing to a boy my age, but I don’t bother taking the bait.
The man shifts in his seat again, takes a breath.
“We also found a pinkie finger in your refrigerator. It looks like a woman’s. Judging by the fact it appears you have all your digits, I have to ask: whose pinkie finger is it?”
I say nothing.
Sheriff Gilbert’s eyes harden.
“To what extent is my deputy involved in what happened last night?”
Shit. They’re going to drag Erik into this. Not that I’m surprised, but I was hoping he might make it out of this unscathed. Despite the fact he was there when they raided my apartment, half-naked, on his knees with his hands behind his head.
I keep my gaze steady with the sheriff’s when I answer.
“What happened last night?”
The kindness in the man’s eyes fades.
“You know very well what happened last night. Two federal agents were murdered, and you were the one who murdered them.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sheriff Gilbert issues a frustrated grunt as he slides a finger under the documents and flips them over.
They’re not papers, I see, but photographs, blown up to 6 x 9 so that every detail can be seen. There are three of them, and he spreads them out on the table in front of me like he’s a blackjack dealer.
The sheriff taps the center photograph with his index finger.
“This is you, isn’t it?”
It is, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. No verbal response, nothing in my eyes.
He smiles, nodding to himself as he stares down at the photograph.
“Yeah, we got photographic evidence of you murdering those men. I ain’t no lawyer, but I’ve been doing this long enough to know you’re screwed.”
The center photograph shows me standing on the other side of the tractor, which means the camera must have been positioned above the side door. When the lights came on, I did a quick scan of the interior, but clearly I missed a camera hanging over the door. Unless the camera wasn’t meant to be easily seen.
The other two photographs show me standing over the ICE agents, Mulkey and Kyer. In each photograph, I’m holding the 1911. In each photograph, the men are dead.
None of the photographs show Eleanora.
The sheriff leans back in his seat, crosses his arms, and takes another deep breath.
“So here’s what’s gonna happen next. In the next hour, U.S. Marshals will arrive to take you into their custody. They’re gonna transport you down to San Antonio where there’s a federal judge waiting to arraign you.”
“Sheriff Gilbert.”
This catches him off guard for some reason, the way I casually say his name, and he frowns at me but doesn’t speak.
“Who provided you with these photographs?”
He doesn’t answer. Just sits there, studying me. Clearly not sure how to proceed.
I glance down at the center photograph again, the one that clearly shows my face. It’s almost too perfect. Obviously I’m being set up, but the question is by whom, and why.
“How many of these photographs did you receive?”
No answer.
“Did you receive them from the owner of the location in which these events supposedly took place?”
No answer.
“I’m sure by now you would have already spoken to the owner, so I guess my question is does he or she acknowledge having a security camera placed inside this building?”
Sheriff Gilbert still doesn’t answer. He keeps watching me, his lips tight.
“Say the owner doesn’t have a security camera inside this building, then how exactly were these photographs taken, and why?”
The kindness in the sheriff’s eyes has long since left for vacation. His jaw has tightened, too. His chair creaks as he leans forward to start collecting the photographs.
I ask, “When do I get my phone call?”
The hardness in his eyes snaps into a glare.
“You killed two federal agents. You don’t get a goddamned phone call.”
I should leave it there—let the man storm out of the room to catch his breath, cool off—but I don’t.
“So let me get this straight. You respect the Second Amendment, but not the Sixth? You know, it’s part of the Bill of Rights that guarantees a citizen a speedy trial, a fair jury, and a—”
Sheriff Gilbert slams his fist down on the table.
“You”—pointing at me now with his free hand, his face having gone red—“you murdered two federal agents in cold blood.”
I calmly keep my gaze steady with his.
“Allegedly.”
His jaw tightens again. His face has gone even redder. It looks like he’s ready to explode at me when there’s a knock at the door.
Like somebody’s just poked him with a pin, the sheriff starts to deflate. He glares at me for another moment before snatching up the photographs and pushing to his feet. He nearly tears the door off its hinges, lets it slam shut. A moment of silence outside, and then he shouts, “What?” before he says something else I can’t make out and the door opens again. He doesn’t advance toward the table, though, and stays where he is, holding the door open.
“Your lawyer is here.”
His words drip with contempt.
I don’t make any reaction—no smile, no frown—because I don’t want to set him off any more than I already have. Plus … what lawyer? Obviously I’m entitled to one—so says the Founding Fathers who wrote the Bill of Rights—but I don’t have a lawyer, or even know a lawyer. I wanted a phone call so that I could call Atticus. I wouldn’t be able to speak to him, at least not right away. The only number he gave me is to a dry cleaners that doesn’t exist. Atticus said to call and leave a message if I’m ever in any trouble. And this most certainly seems like trouble. Not sure what all he can do for me, anyway—the photographs Sheriff Gilbert showed me are quite damning—but at least he’s somebody I can reach out to because … well, I don’t have anybody else.
The sheriff lets the door slam shut. For a minute I’m left in that deep silence, and then the door opens again.
And again I don’t make any reaction as I watch her enter the interview room. She’s wearing a black business suit. Modest heels. Full-rim rectangle eyeglasses. Her hair isn’t curly, not like it was yesterday, but long and straight.
As soon as the door closes, she moves directly to the camera in the corner, a briefcase in one hand, and leans up on her tiptoes to disconnect the power cord. Then Leila Simmons turns back to me, a small smile on her face.
“Hello, Holly.”