There’s something weird about listening to Owen rattle everything off. I’ve always been the one that Cliff entrusts with the details, but this is kind of refreshing.
“We’ll hit them on Thursday,” Owen says.
I reach for the paper to double check the specifics when I feel the buzz of my phone again. This time I’m more discrete as I glance down.
Sophia left a voicemail.
I want to crush my phone in my fist so I don’t have to fight the urge to listen to it later, but for now I focus on keeping an empty expression.
“Oh, and our window is from 11 to 12:30.” Owen points to a note in the top corner. “Everything look good?”
“Yeah.” I fold the sheet and stuff in into my pocket. “Thursday it is.”
Chapter Eleven
Sophia
The cold emptiness of my bed is the first thing to hit me. I blink my eyes open and embarrassment floods in almost as fast as the sunlight. I try to push it away but it’s useless. All I can see is Noah.
I roll over and exhale the weight of my chest into a pillow. What I’m feeling is more than embarrassment. It’s a cocktail of regret and craving, thanks to me.
I should be waking up in Noah’s bed right now. Not my own.
My house is too quiet and I can hear his voice in my head as I descend down the stairs. I scoop the remote off of the counter and punch on the TV. Even CNN’s dull droning is better than nothing.
When I turn towards the pantry Sherlock scampers ahead of me, pawing onto the bottom shelf before meowing back at me.
“I’m coming.” I reach for a can of his wet food and we do the same dance back to kitchen counter where I scoop it into his bowl.
I find myself zoning out as he eats. In my minds eye I’m back at last night’s dinner. Noah is sitting across from me and that instinctual discomfort is churning in my gut.
And why? Because of some random phone call? A little interruption that I inflated into a complete disaster?
It all feels absurd—as absurd as it must’ve been to Noah last night. We were out at a five-star restaurant, drinking incredible wine and having apparently too wonderful of a time, so I went and ruined it.
Dating and interrogating are not the same. And maybe I’m the only one who ever thought they were similar—but they’re not.
They’re absolutely not.
Noah runs a gallery for God’s sake. He’s probably never received more than a parking ticket. Yet there I was, studying him for any sign of suspicious activity. As if there had to be something. As if it was impossible that I was simply at a pleasant dinner with a terrific guy.
I shake my head in frustration and retrieve a glass of water.
I don’t deserve him, anyway. Noah’s the most complete package I’ve ever met and I left him sitting in his car. Worse than that, I broke off our kiss without even saying a word. And then left him sitting in his car. I might be a good detective, but I suck at dating. That fact has made itself painfully obvious.
Although… good detectives don’t get themselves suspended. Like I did.
What the hell is going on?
My instincts are all I have and if those are starting to fail me, forget a love life—I’ll be out of a job.
And hell, what if Noah does use a different phone for his gallery. Even if it’s a cheap little brick, maybe he wants something secure and untraceable to negotiate the purchasing of art that’s been bought and sold anonymously for years. It’s unlikely, but it’s possible. And even if that was the case and I still went home with him anyway… Then so what?
Worse case is I would’ve slept with someone who maybe conducts slightly shady business. I still would’ve come home this morning and would be standing right where I am now with no harm done.
Where the hell was this logic last night?
Sherlock has finished inhaling his breakfast and returns to my feet, grazing his back between my ankles. I bend down to scoop him up.
“I screwed up,” I say to my tabby on our way to the couch.
CNN was a failed distraction, considering that I remember the TV is on only once I’m back sitting in front of it.
Sherlock balls in my lap and I rest my head against the cushions. The news anchor is interviewing some guest from the IRVT, which apparently stands for the Institute for Research on Voting Trends and isn’t remotely enough to keep Noah off my mind.
Screw my instincts. Apparently I have yet to master how to override my intuition in situations that don’t involve life and death.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I unlock my phone and dial his number. I bring it to my ear. My heart is racing and gaining speed with every new ring until they abruptly stop.
He ignored my call.
All at once my enthusiasm evaporates. Then comes the voicemail prompt, and for a second I’m frozen as I debate what to do.
I should hang up. Hang up and forget all about him. That would be the smart decision.
I should forget all about the last couple days and get back to finding ways to distract myself for the remainder of my suspension.
But Noah is the best distraction I’m going to find.
I’m still sitting there as the phone beeps, too stubborn to end the call. “Hi Noah, this is Sophia,” I begin with no idea of what I want to say. “I’m just calling to apologize for last night. I don’t know what got into me. I had a really, really, great time with you. I’m just—I’m so sorry for acting weird. You didn’t deserve it. And now I’m rambling… but I just needed to call and apologize. I understand if you’ve already written me off, but… I don’t know, if you’re willing I’d love to talk to you again. Maybe apologize in person. And I’m still rambling so I’m just going to hang up now. Bye.”
I allow my phone to slip through my hand and bounce from the couch onto the floor. I sigh and lean back.
Ever since my argument with the sheriff, I’ve been a walking pent up bottle of negativity. I need to de-stress. I should drag myself out for a run.
But my phone rings.
My chest swells with anticipation. Sherlock jumps from my lap as I reach to retrieve my phone from the floor, but disappointment floods through me the second I see the screen.
I press to answer. “Hi Claire.”
“Sophia,” she replies in a voice much more alive than my own. “Hi babes, how are you doing?”
“I’m alright,” I say without bothering to match her energy.
Claire and I met on a case just over a year ago. She was a newbie, I was in my third year, and we’re still the only two female officers in the homicide department.
“You don’t sound alright,” she says.
“I’ve been better.”
“Yeah, I bet.” Pessimism seeps into her voice. “You probably miss the department, I know we’re all missing you.”
“You have no idea, Claire. It’s killing me.”
“I can only imagine,” she says woefully. “God only knows what I’d be doing with that much time on my hands. I bet you’ve probably cleaned every inch of your house three times over by now.”
“Something like that. I don’t know if I’m going to make it. I can’t stand sitting here while you all are out there.”
She sighs in sympathy, and I take the opportunity to rant at someone who actually understands.
“I wish I didn’t make an issue out of the Walters arrest,” I say. “Why couldn’t I have bitten my tongue just that once?”
“I don’t think you should fault yourself too much, Soph, I really don’t. I would’ve done the same thing. It was either make the arrest or risk letting him evade us for good.”
The phone fills with a heavy silence that feels like a brick on my ear.
“Hello?” she asks. “You still there?”
Yes, I’m still here and I want to say so but I’m stuck on that word—that nickname.
Soph.
It sounds the same as it always does coming from her, but Noah gave it a new ring that’s now glaringly absent.
“Yes, I’m still here. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. But listen, this whole thing is unfortunate, but I really don’t think you should fault yourself.”
“I knew we didn’t have a warrant and I arrested him anyway.”
“So? If things went a little differently we could’ve charged him right there, but politics got in the way and that’s how it goes sometimes,” she says. “You know that. You’re also the one who taught me the importance of arresting for justice, not a conviction.”
“You’re right, but I turned it into an issue. I knew Sheriff was furious, I knew he was right, and I still fought him about it.”
“He’s always furious though, isn’t he?” Claire says. “Again, not your fault. As bad as it sounds, I don’t think it would’ve escalated like this if the paper hadn’t bashed you so much. That article was essentially bashing the whole department, and you know Sheriff hates that. He probably wanted you on temporary leave just to make it go away.”
“I’m suspended, Claire. That’s what he called it so I’m going to do the same.”
“You’re on paid administrative leave, Soph,” she says. And there it is again. Soph. I bite my lip as she continues. “I know it sucks but it’s not the end of your career.”
“It does suck.”
“Yeah. Well shoot, I didn’t mean to sour your mood even more. I just wanted to call and check in on you. I really do miss ya.”
“No, don’t apologize. It was nice of you to call,” I say. “And don’t feel bad, the department needs you worrying about the real victims.” My phone vibrates against my ear and I lower it before even thinking.
It’s Noah. He’s returning my call.
I can hear Claire’s voice mumbling in my palm and I bring my phone back to my ear. “Hey Claire, can I call you back?” I sound more urgent than necessary—but I am not missing this call. “I’m sorry, it’s my mom, she’s returning my call.”
“Yes, of course. I should get back anyway. I’ll let you go. Bye.”
“Bye,” I echo, ending her call and joining Noah’s as fast as I can. “Hello?”
“Hello?” he says.
“Noah?”
“Yes?” It’s his voice, but it’s flat. And I don’t blame him.
“Hi there. Thanks for calling me back.”
“Yeah, sorry I missed your call. I was making breakfast. But I listened to your message.”
That sounds like an excuse, but I don’t let it shake me. “I’m still glad you called, I want to apologize,” I say. “I can’t tell you how bad I feel.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, I mean it, I’m really sorry. I feel ashamed. I had a great time with you and I just want to make sure you know that. I don’t think I necessarily made it obvious last night.”
“You actually had a good time?” he asks. For the first time, his tone has slight enthusiasm in it.
“Not a just good time, that was the best night I can remember,” I say. “Date or otherwise. Honestly.”
“Was it incredible?” Noah asks and I can’t help but laugh.
“Yes, it was incredible. I don’t know if I mentioned that.” I pause. “But really, I only wish I hadn’t cut it short.”
“Me too.”
There’s another pause. But if I could interest him by sitting awkwardly in a club, then I can do it again.
“Will you give me a chance to make it up to you?” I ask.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” I say enticingly. “That would depend on how much ground I have to make up.”
He chuckles softly but doesn’t speak. I don’t care though. That’s all I needed.
“What if you let me come cook for you?” I suggest. “I’ll make us dinner and dessert.”
“You want to come cook for me?”
“I’d love to. You don’t have to buy anything or make a reservation. You don’t even have to go anywhere, I’ll come to you.”
There’s another break in the conversation that seems to stretch on and on.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he finally says, and I feel my whole body begin to sag. Before I can muster a response, he adds, “My house is a mess right now.”
That’s another excuse. I know it is.
“That’s fine, I’m not scared of a little dust,” I say.
Another pause.
Does he really not want anything to do with me anymore? If that’s the case than why even call back?
“Okay,” Noah says suddenly.
“Okay? You’ll let me cook you dinner?”
“Yes, I’ll let you cook me dinner. That sounds delicious.”
Excitement runs through my limbs. “Great! How about Thursday?”
“No, not Thursday,” he mutters.
“That’s fine, how about—”
“How about Friday?” he finishes for me. “I’ll be out of town on Thursday.”
My face flushes with a giddy smile. “Friday sounds terrific.”
Chapter Twelve
Noah
I have my hand rested on my .38 caliber revolver when we pull into the parking lot. Owen parks the van and I pull on my mask before he even kills the ignition.
“Hey, look at me man.” He twists the key and turns towards me. “Are you good?”
I nod before flinging open my door. Owen rushes to pull his mask on and I wait for him to grab his Remington before jumping out of the car.
I push through the doors and Owen throws up his shotgun.
“Down! Everyone get the fuck down,” he yells. The air leaves the room in a series of gasps. I quickly survey the tellers before zip tying the front door.
“Let’s go! Everyone to the middle of the room. Hurry!” he orders.
I slip around Owen and step over a teller with gelled black hair. In front of him is a customer lying flat on his stomach with his face pressed against the ground. It always pains me a little when customers are involved.
“Phones!” Owen barks. “Throw your phones, let me see them.”
“Where’s the girl?” I ask, scanning the room for the one female teller I saw when we entered. But there’s nothing. Not a single movement.
Fuck.
I dart toward the counter, launch myself over and land a few feet from her crawling body. She turns back at me and freezes.
“Did you flip the switch?” I ask, tracing my fingers under the counter as I close the distance between us. As soon as I’m within a foot she spins forward, scurrying hastily toward an alarm under the far end of the counter. I drop to my knees and lunge at her, catching an ankle and pulling back.
My revolver falls from its holster and rattles on the floor. Without letting go of her ankle, I reach for the gun.
I have it pointed right as she rolls onto her back. “That was a bad idea.”
Her dark brown eyes glare up at me as she catches her breath.
“Now get up,” I order, but she only narrows her eyes. “Get up!”
Slowly, she pushes herself first to her knees, then her feet.
“What’s your name, sweetie?” I ask with my revolver raised.
“Bella,” she spits back with defiance.
“You know, Bella, that’s not something I’d recommend trying again.”
“Fuck you.”
I nestle the revolver’s nose in her long black hair. “I’m going to give you a chance to redeem yourself now,” I say, nodding at Owen.
He nods back, then takes a step forward and aims his shotgun at an employee on the floor.
“You do anything like that again and that gentleman over there is going to have a really bad day,” I whisper. “You got that?”
She barely nods.
“You cost us a lot of valuable time so we’re going straight to the vault, and you’re going to unlock it for me.”
I guide her all the way to the back corner of the bank, but she stops before the door.
“Let’s go!” I nudge her forward but she steps rig
ht back. “Come on,” I growl, nestling the revolver in her hair again. “That poor man is counting on you. Now open the doors.”
“No.” Her face is completely blank. I feel the muscles clench in my jaw.
“I swear to God you don’t want to do this.”
“I’m not doing anything for you,” she hisses. “They warned us and I’m sure they’re on the way.”
My chest surges with fury. Owen and I have long agreed that we’ll never harm anyone innocent, employee or customer, but as the seconds tick away I can’t help but feel like I’m running out of options.
“I’m giving you three seconds before I pull this trigger,” I say through my teeth. “One. Two—” The word is on my tongue as a single shot fires up into the roof.
“Let’s go!” Owen shouts before pumping his shotgun and bringing it back down to the customer.
“I’ll do it!” blurts the teller with gelled black hair.
“What did you say?” Owen asks, lifting and aiming his Remington at him.
“I said I’ll do it,” the man quivers. He covers his head with his arms. “Please don’t shoot.”
“Get up,” Owen says. He lowers his shotgun and the man immediately springs to his feet.
Bella’s body tenses beside me. “No, Eric, don’t—”
“Get down,” I tell her. “Now. Lay on the ground.”
Slowly, she bends her knees and folds onto the floor. The man stops beside her and I gesture for him to open the lock. My legs pulse with energy as he twists. I feel like I can see each and every second evaporating into the air in front of me.
As soon as the lock clicks, I throw open the door and pull Eric into the room in front of us. “The vault—unlock the vault,” I shout, turning and pointing my revolver at Bella. “And don’t you fucking move.”
The man mumbles something as he begins twisting.
“What did you say?” I ask, but just then comes a click as the steel hinges unlatch. Finally.
I keep my revolver aimed as I yank the wheel, but nothing moves. I holster my revolver and try again, pulling with the violent weight of my whole body. Nothing.
A Capital Mistake Page 6