Snapped

by Laura Griffin

  “You came here to tell me that.” He said it as a statement, not a question.

  “Yes, and also, thank you. For being … good at what you do. Not just now but before.” She’d thought she’d be able to talk about last winter and how he’d helped her in the aftermath of her attack, but now the words were stuck in her throat, and she thought she’d choke if she tried to get them out. Tears stung her eyes, and the thought of unraveling in front of him made her panicky. That wasn’t why she’d come here.

  Or was it? Maybe her friends were right. Maybe she did need counseling.

  He turned to look at her, and his expression grew concerned. “Come here.” He draped an arm over her shoulders, and she started to pull away. “Relax, I’m not going to jump on you.”

  She rested her cheek against his chest and for a few moments she closed her eyes and let herself feel safe. The tight, strangled feeling went away and she relaxed. Just the smell of his T-shirt had a calming effect on her.

  It felt so nice just to sit next to him. She realized this was the most unguarded moment they’d ever had together, probably because she’d interrupted his sleep.

  “Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

  “Yeah.”

  It wasn’t a lie. She was okay now. But as the silence stretched out, she knew she needed to leave.

  He took her hand and played with her fingers. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good.” Pause. “Can I jump on you now?”

  She laughed and felt the tension drain out of her. She ducked out of his arm and stood up. “I have to go.”

  He stood, too, and rested his hands on his hips and gazed down at her with a look that was both puzzled and worried.

  “Go back to your game,” she said.

  “Actually, I was sleeping.”

  “I know.”

  She went to the door and was relieved when he reached over to open it for her. He wasn’t going to twist her arm, which was good, because she wasn’t sure she could resist even a little persuasion.

  “Thanks for listening.” She stepped onto the porch, into the warm summer night that smelled like lawn clippings, and she felt a pinch of regret.

  It seemed like she was saying good-bye.

  Sophia climbed the steps up to her apartment as he watched from the shadows. Out late again. With the cop this time? He wasn’t sure. He also wasn’t sure what she knew.

  The man dug the key fob from his pocket and waited for the light to go on in the bedroom. Then he crossed the parking lot and opened her locks with a chirp. He scanned the area for witnesses before inserting the spare key he’d stolen from her kitchen drawer and bringing the Tahoe to life. He reached for the navigation system. A few taps of his finger, and he discovered what she’d been up to the last few days—starting with Friday night, when video footage of Himmel’s car being towed away had been plastered all over the news.

  The man surveyed the screen in front of him. She’d seen the pictures. And then she’d gone exploring.

  He stared at the map for a moment, then took out his phone. He punched in a ten-digit number he’d memorized years ago but never used.

  Someone picked up, but there was no greeting. He hadn’t expected one.

  “It’s Sharpe,” he said.

  A long silence, and then finally, “Go ahead.”

  He glanced up at the bedroom window, where the light was still on. “We’ve got a problem.”

  Jonah made his way through the bullpen and dumped his keys on the desk he hadn’t sat behind in more than five days. Neglected case files were stacked beside his phone. Messages and faxes were piled in his in-box. He tossed the ballistics report he’d just picked up on top of all of it and logged on to his computer.

  His phone trilled at him, but he ignored it as he searched for a message from Minh, who’d promised him a fingerprint update this morning.

  The trilling stopped, but then his cell started up. Cursing, he jerked it from his pocket.

  “Macon.”

  “We’re in the interview room. We need you in here.”

  Jonah fired off a reminder to the CSI before joining Reynolds in the cramped, windowless chamber that doubled as a conference room for private meetings. Four unhappy faces greeted him as he entered.

  “Another lawsuit’s been slapped on us,” Reynolds said without preamble. “Got word this morning.”

  Jonah’s gaze skimmed over his lieutenant, Chief Noonan, and Ric, before coming to rest on the county’s district attorney. It had to be serious for them to be seeking a legal perspective so early in the game.

  “Someone’s suing the department or …?”

  Reynolds tossed his pencil down. “The department, the university, me, you, Ric.”

  “Suing us personally?” Jonah looked at the D.A.

  “You’re not listed as defendants, but your names are in the body of the petition,” she said. “It’s unlikely they’ll go after you individually because of the sovereign immunity rule, which basically means you can’t personally get sued for doing your job.”

  “Still this is a major pain in the ass, not to mention a publicity nightmare,” Noonan said.

  Jonah looked at his partner, who sat at the end of the table with his arms crossed. The grim look on his face was even worse news than the D.A.’s presence. Ric wasn’t a worrier.

  “Who’s the plaintiff?” Jonah asked the D.A.

  “Robert C. Kincaid.”

  “Kincaid’s suing us?”

  “For the wrongful death of his wife,” Ric said. “Evidently if we’d stormed the roof sooner, she’d be alive today.”

  Jonah remembered the grieving widower with the kid on his lap during Saturday’s service. He’d looked stricken. Helpless. Overwhelmed by sadness.

  Apparently not too overwhelmed to be thinking about cashing in on his wife’s death.

  Jonah turned to the D.A. “Do we need to be worried?”

  “What kind of question is that?” Reynolds demanded. “We sure as shit better be worried! He’s going to try and squeeze us for millions of dollars in front of a sympathetic jury!”

  “I’d like to say no, that it’s just a frivolous money grab,” she said. “However, you never know with these things. You all will have to consult a defense attorney who specializes in these sorts of cases. But I’ll say this: It’s definitely not good.”

  “The department’s legal counsel is on his way up from San Antonio,” Noonan said. “We’ve got a whole stack of these things to sort through. This is just the most recent.”

  “And the most personal,” Ric said tightly. “Every one of us from the takedown team is mentioned in the lawsuit.”

  The door opened, and Sean poked his head in the room. “Yo, you guys need to see this. CNN’s on campus again.”

  Noonan grumbled something and left the room. Reynolds followed.

  Jonah stayed behind. He’d had it up to his eyeballs with the media coverage, and about the last thing he needed to see was yet another “inside story” about the Summer School Massacre. He felt a hard ball of bitterness forming in his gut. A lawsuit from Kincaid, of all people.

  “We should have expected this,” Ric said bitterly. “Can’t have a tragedy in this country without people lining up to get rich off it.”

  Allison stepped into the room and looked at Jonah. “You get my message?”

  “What?”

  “Those door codes are a dead end,” she said. “At least in terms of establishing some inside connection between the shooter and the university. I was in the central maintenance office this morning and they’ve got a master list posted there, right by the door, listing all the access codes. Anybody could have gotten a look at them with minimal effort.”

  Jonah shook his head. Another lead gone. Just what he needed today.

  “Yo, Jonah.” Sean looked in again. “You need to come out here, man.”

  Jonah stepped out of the room and fixed his attention on the department’s only television, wh
ich was mounted on the wall in the waiting area beyond the reception counter. A couple of uniforms and plainclothes cops were gazing up at it now.

  Jonah plunked his hands on his hips as he recognized the reporter, Tom Rollins. “That guy’s local. I thought you said CNN.”

  “Just watch,” Sean told him. “CNN picked this up from some station out of Austin.”

  “Turn it up!” Reynolds yelled across the room, and the woman at the reception desk scrambled for the remote.

  “—another chilling firsthand account from a part-time student caught in the crossfire during Wednesday’s deadly massacre. Is there anything else you want the victims’ families or the viewers at home to know about your harrowing experience?”

  The camera panned away from the reporter and came to rest on a woman.

  Jonah’s stomach dropped. Sophie wore a conservative navy blazer and had her hair pulled back in a neat bun. Far from the wild-eyed woman who’d shown up ranting at the bar the other night, this one was completely calm and composed.

  “Christ, she looks like a Sunday-school teacher,” Ric muttered. “What’d she do to her hair?”

  “It was just so frightening,” Sophie told the reporter. “As I said, I just kept thinking I was next. My heart breaks for the victims and their families, but it’s a comfort knowing the police have been doing everything they can to identify the person or persons responsible for this.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say ‘persons’?” The microphone inched closer. “Are you saying there could be more than one?”

  “What the hell is she doing?” Reynolds flashed an accusing look at Jonah. “What is she talking about?”

  “I can’t comment on that,” Sophie answered. “I’ve already been interviewed at length by investigators, and beyond that, I have nothing to say.”

  “But you think there’s someone else responsible? Besides James Himmel?”

  “I can’t comment on what I saw that day. I will say this, though …” Jonah’s stomach took another dive as Sophie looked straight at the camera. “The police have made it clear they are totally committed to this case. They’ve sent all the evidence to our nation’s top private forensic lab—”

  “How does she know that?” Noonan demanded.

  “—and I think the public can rest assured that they will leave no stone unturned as they investigate these killings.”

  “Someone put a muzzle on that girl!” Reynolds exclaimed.

  “But just to be clear, are you saying you believe there was someone else involved in the attack?”

  A chorus of telephones started ringing across the station house. Jonah’s throat tightened with fury as he gazed at the TV.

  “I’m sorry, but I really can’t comment.” Sophie smiled apologetically at the reporter. “That’s a question for the police.”

  The heavy thrum of bass pulsated through the darkened room, making Sophie’s stomach vibrate as she pushed herself to the limit.

  “Harder, everyone, harder! You’re almost there! Don’t stop now!”

  Sophie squeezed her eyes shut and blocked out her spin teacher’s voice as she focused on her burning muscles. Three more minutes of pain. And then two. And then one. She pushed and panted until she was dizzy, and just when it felt as if her heart would pound right out of her chest, she heard a collective sigh of exhaustion.

  The lights came up on Sophie and a dozen other sweat-drenched people on stationary bikes. The music downshifted to melodic for the optional cooldown, and Sophie opted to get the hell off. She slid from her bike, grabbing the handle as she did because her legs were like noodles. She snatched the towel off the floor to mop her face.

  “Great spin, Sophie! Woo-hoo!”

  Her instructor’s bright smile beamed at her from across the room. The woman was as soaked as everyone else, but there wasn’t a hair out of place and her makeup remained perfect, despite the sixty minutes of torture she’d just meted out. Sophie somehow managed a friendly wave instead of an obscene gesture as she staggered from the room on trembling legs. In the hallway, she downed three cones of water at the cooler before going to the locker room for her gym bag, which was singing as she picked it up. She’d forgotten to turn off the ringtone.

  Her brother’s number flashed on the screen.

  “Ted? What’s wrong?”

  Silence on the other end, and Sophie’s stomach filled with dread. Ted was an intern at a hospital in Dallas, and he didn’t have time to sleep, much less chat on the phone. She pictured her dad in ICU.

  “Did you just run up some stairs?” His voice sounded oddly normal.

  “I’m at a spin class. What’s wrong?”

  “You spin?”

  “Is this an emergency?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you never call me. What’s going on?”

  “I was going to ask you that,” he said as she plowed through the locker-room door. “How come you didn’t give the parental units a little ET-phone-home about your brush with death last week? We have to hear about you on the news now?”

  “Damn it.” Sophie sighed and leaned back against the wall. “Mom and Dad saw that? I was going to call them.”

  “Yeah, well, dial a little faster next time. Mom’s left three messages on my phone tonight, like I know anything about all this. Are you okay?”

  The note of genuine concern in his voice made Sophie feel guilty. She hadn’t told her family what had happened because every last one of them was a worrier. They’d been horrified by her ordeal last winter, and now every conversation with her mother ended with a recommendation for some therapist she should talk to. All in Dallas, of course.

  “Sophie? Hey, you want me to come down there? I can probably take some time off—”

  “Absolutely not,” she said. That he would even offer showed just how concerned her family must be. “I’m totally fine.”

  “Then why are you on CNN talking about your ‘harrowing experience’? You weren’t injured, were you?”

  “I’m fine. I just … The reporter asked me for an interview and I thought maybe it would be, you know, cathartic. So I decided, Why not?”

  She waited to see if he was buying any of this. When he didn’t comment, she knew it was time to get off the phone.

  “Sophie … are you all right?”

  “For the last time, yes! Listen, I’ve got to go. Call Mom for me. Tell her—”

  “You tell her.” Commotion in the background, and her brother exchanged ER jargon with someone. “Shit, I have to run. We just got an OD in here.”

  He clicked off, and Sophie took a minute to wrestle with some daughterly guilt. She gulped down one more cone of water and stepped into the muggy night. Her gaze scanned the parking lot for her Tahoe but got hung up on the pickup parked beside it.

  Jonah was there, leaning against the grille with his arms crossed over his beefy chest and his fingers tucked under his armpits. Sophie’s still-racing heart took off at a sprint.

  His gaze was dark, ominous. He looked like a dam about to burst, and she felt a shiver of fear right down to the soles of her Reeboks.

  Damn. She hadn’t expected him to do this now. But then, he was a warrior by nature and she should have known he wouldn’t shy away from a fight.

  She tried not to look shaken as she rummaged for her keys and made her way to the row of cars. She paused in front of his pickup.

  “Hi.”

  He didn’t say anything, simply pushed off the grille and took a menacing step forward.

  Sophie tossed her head and sauntered to her door, but he blocked her path.

  “Excuse me.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Why don’t you go home and call me after I’ve had a chance to take a shower?”

  “Now.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to de-slime myself first.”

  “I do mind.” He reached behind her and opened the passenger’s-side door to his truck. “Get in.”

  The hard
set of his jaw told her arguing was only going to make things worse. If he was determined to talk about this, they might as well get it over with.

  She sighed heavily and got into his truck.

  Rather than looking triumphant or even pleased by her acquiescence, he continued to look supremely unhappy as he jerked his keys from his pocket and walked around to the driver’s side. He fired up the engine as Sophie dug through her purse for a tissue to dab her still-sweating temples. Her yoga pants and T-shirt were wet, and she probably reeked. But as they exited the parking lot, Jonah seemed too preoccupied to notice.

  The driver in front of them missed a chance to pull out, and Jonah laid on the horn.

  Sophie slid a glance at him. “In a hurry?”

  He looked straight ahead.

  “Where are we going, anyway?”

  “For a drive.”

  Sophie glanced out the window and waited for him to start. He needed to vent his temper, apparently, and she was up for the challenge. She’d expected a cold sulk from him, but she could deal with this, too. She just wanted to get on with it.

  “So, I guess you saw the interview,” she said as he pulled into traffic.

  “Did you accomplish your objective?” he asked without looking at her.

  “Well, I haven’t seen the broadcast, but I’d say yes, I’m guessing I did.”

  “Was your objective to piss off every cop in town? Or just me in particular?”

  She rolled her eyes. “This isn’t about you.”

  “What was your objective, Sophie?”

  “I think it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Not to me. Maybe you could explain it. Because if your objective was to further this investigation, it’s just taken a big step backward, thanks to you.” He turned to look at her, and hostility flashed in his eyes.

  “Oh, really? How’s that?” She said it with the right amount of sarcasm, but underneath her confidence was a twinge of anxiety.

  “You set the media on us, for one thing. How easy do you think it’s going to be for us to pursue your theory with that pack of dogs nipping at our heels?”

  “My ‘theory,’ huh?” He still didn’t believe her.

  “And even if there was something to it, you just tipped our hand. If there is some mystery accomplice out there, he’s probably busy covering his tracks now. You want to go into PR? Here’s the first rule of talking to reporters: Don’t. They fuck everything up.”