Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
“When you’re scared,” the detective said, “talking to law enforcement is usually a good first move.”
I didn’t respond to that statement, giving him a blank stare. He kept up with the questions.
What was I doing in Atlanta? Why was I parked in Midtown? Why had I gone to Sinclair Security? Why was I with Eli?
I never got to answer the last few, Eli stepping in smoothly to take control of the interview. I found his bossiness annoying when it was directed at me, but if he could get this detective to stop shooting questions my way, I’d have to reevaluate. A little bossiness could be a good thing.
“Sylvie’s a client,” he said. “When the van blew up, she realized she was in danger, and she came to ask for protection.”
“Podcasting pays that well, huh?” The detective raised an eyebrow, staring across the desk at me.
“It can,” I said, taking a little satisfaction in the way his eyes narrowed. Usually, helping law enforcement was my thing, but that parking ticket brought out my inner rebellious teenager.
“You have no idea who blew up your van?” he asked, sounding exasperated.
“I don’t,” I said. “I wish I did. I want whoever did it caught.”
“And you’re sure it wasn’t you?”
I shook my head, impatience bubbling up. “I can show you my insurance policy. Trust me, it’ll cover some, but not everything, the van was worth. I built the interior myself.”
My throat closed as those words hit, and in a flood, I remembered endless hours of sweat and splinters, the smell of wood, sawdust everywhere, sanding until everything was butter-soft and smooth as silk. It had been beautiful, or as beautiful as I’d been able to make it with my mediocre carpentry skills. It had been home. I swallowed hard.
“I want to see my van,” I said.
“You can’t,” the detective answered. “It’s evidence in an investigation.”
“If there’s anything left, I’d like to—”
“There’s nothing left,” he said firmly.
I set my jaw, prepared to argue. The detective shook his head. He turned a computer screen, hit a few buttons, and a picture flashed up. I didn’t recognize the burned-out shell as my van. The inside was charred black, the metal frame skeletal.
“There’s nothing to see,” he said. “This is it.”
“You’re checking for explosive residue? Accelerant?” Eli asked.
“Tests are being run,” the detective said with a nod. “I’m sure we’ll have more questions when the results are back.” He looked to me, maybe expecting the mention of tests to spark a comment, but I had nothing. My eyes were glued to the screen, lungs tight, getting tighter as I took in the empty shell of my life.
He was right. There was nothing there but ash. Not a scrap of fabric. Not a square inch of wood. Everything was gone. I thought about the day I’d installed the Murphy bed mechanics with my brother. It had been so heavy and awkward for me alone. I’d dropped the tools and the parts, bruising my toe. We finally got it in there, and when we did, the mattress went up and down so smoothly it seemed like magic, transforming the back of the van from a bedroom to an office with the slightest touch.
All the air went out of my lungs. It was gone. Just gone.
“Is there anything else?” I asked, my voice thin and tight.
“No, that’s it for now. Don’t forget to take care of that ticket. We’ll be in touch.”
I didn’t know how, when I hadn’t given the detective my information, but maybe Eli had. My brain was foggy, frozen, my chest hollow with loss as it all hit me at once. Someone had tried to kill me. My home was gone.
That strong hand closed around my arm again. “Let’s go.” Eli’s words were curt, but his touch was gentle as he urged me to my feet and nudged me through the door ahead of him.
We stopped in the hall. I leaned against the concrete wall, watching numbly as he tapped his phone to the screen of a vending machine and pulled out a soda, leading me out through the front doors to the SUV.
“Come on. Get in.” He nudged me to the door he held open.
Obedient, I climbed in, my hands shaking a little as I fastened my seat belt. The second it clicked in, Eli shoved the cold can of soda into my hand.
“Drink this.”
“I never drink soda,” I mumbled, staring down at the can.
“Doesn’t matter. You’re in shock. You need the sugar and the caffeine. Come on, Sylvie. Take a sip.”
The sweet bubbles hit my tongue, sparking life back into my brain. I took a cautious sip, then gulped. When I was halfway through, the sweetness of it was too much, and I slid it into the cup holder, wrapping my arms around myself, watching blankly as Eli pulled into traffic, navigating somewhere. He turned into a parking garage and didn’t say anything until he’d found a spot and stopped the car.