by Penny Reid
After leaving the diner, I texted my mother to let her know I’d be home after midnight. I didn’t know for a fact that I’d be home after midnight, but better to be safe than scared half to death upon entering my house after midnight.
I then drove to the safe house and left a report in the case file, alerting Nelson and Lundqvist separately via text that there was new intel from The Cat.
The Cat was Sylvester’s code name, for . . . obvious reasons to anyone who was a Looney Tunes fan.
Grabbing a GPS vehicle tracking device from the supply locker in the bedroom, I set out in search of Roscoe. Or more precisely, his car.
I checked his house first. Nothing.
Then the Winston Brothers Auto Shop. Still nothing.
Then his brother Beau’s and his sister Ashley’s houses around Bandit Lake. Nothing and nothing.
I’d noticed the police vehicle on my way into the private road that snaked around Bandit Lake, but I hadn’t thought much of it. However, when I pulled to a stop at the end of the loop, and saw that same cop car behind mine, a jolt of terror hit me like a lightning bolt.
Calm down, I told myself, calm down, this is Green Valley, calm down.
I huffed a laugh at my silliness.
A second later, the lights flashed and I jumped in my seat again, my heart hammering in my chest. Peering into my rearview mirror, I tried to figure out who the heck was pulling me over.
I knew most of the sheriff deputies in this area. Sheriff James’s wife—Janet James—was a dear friend of my mother’s. When I was home in Green Valley, I didn’t tense when I spotted a police officer, I didn’t check the volume of my voice or my car’s radio, I didn’t conduct a self-assessment, to make sure my expression was appropriately respectful, not like I did in other small towns.
If I was pulled over in Green Valley, it was because I was speeding around the switchbacks or I had a taillight out or my tag had expired.
So this, being pulled over for no apparent reason, was an odd experience for me in my hometown.
Maybe I have a taillight out? I didn’t think so, but maybe I did.
I steered my vehicle into Ashley Winston’s driveway. I’d spotted her car parked out front and logic told me her driveway felt safer than pulling onto the twisty side road where one car might pass by every half hour.
Just in case.
I cut the engine, rolled down my window, and kept both hands on the wheel, hoping this was just Jackson James—the sheriff’s son—wanting to say hi.
It wasn’t.
My mouth went dry and the terror returned. An officer I didn’t recognize strolled up to my window, but this wasn’t why my mouth went dry. His hand was on his weapon. It was still holstered, but his hand was on it. He bent slightly to peer inside my car, unsmiling.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” He sounded angry, aggressive.
Maybe it was my imagination, but I didn’t think so. And, I swear in that moment, all I could think about was Sandra Bland.
I swallowed around the tightness in my throat—part frustration, part fear, part incredulity—and told myself to refer back to my training at the bureau. I was a professional. This was no big deal. This man was a fellow law enforcement officer. I’d met and worked with hundreds of police officers, all great guys and gals, all on the same team.
I plastered a small smile on my face. “I’m looking for a friend.”
He huffed a disbelieving sounding laugh and his gaze darted over my Audi. “Yeah right. Is this your vehicle?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, careful to keep my tone respectful.
“Driver’s license, insurance, and registration. This better be your car.”
Heat climbed up my neck and I took a deep breath. I began drafting a speech in my head for when this was over, how I would—calmly, politely—explain to him that he was behaving inappropriately. I told myself again that this was no big deal. I told myself that I was overreacting.
None of that helped. Call it a hunch, but there was just something about this guy that didn’t seem right. Nevertheless, I reached for my glove box.
“Whoa! Slowly,” he warned, taking a step back and shifting his weight to his left foot, unclipping the latch holding his gun.
Oh my God.
The polite proposed speech and everything else fled my brain as survival instinct kicked in.
Calm down. You’re a freaking FBI agent. Nothing is going to happen. Calm. Down.
I had my gun on me, I knew how to use it, but that wouldn’t make a difference if this guy shot first and asked questions later. No amount of training could stop a bullet. In that moment, I thought about both Chris Kyle and Sandra Bland.
Just tell him you’re FBI.
I rejected the idea as soon as it formed. I couldn’t. My life wasn’t the only one at stake here. Blowing my cover might mean Isaac, Nelson, and Lundqvist were exposed, too. I wouldn’t do that to them. Plus, there were the folks who’d been murdered and those who might be in danger if the killer struck again in June, according to his/her pattern.
This case was bigger than me and my fear, or my safety.
So I moved slowly, hating the way my hands were shaking and how angry and scared I was, how I couldn’t think and was unable to stop the chanting thought, I belong in a lab. I belong in a lab. I belong in a lab.
This was the reason I didn’t take road trips. I cringed at the thought of Green Valley becoming a sundown town, rejected it on a visceral level. I loved this place, I loved these people, I didn’t want it to change.
Just as I fished out my registration, I heard someone holler, “Hey, what’s going on out here?”
Holding out the registration, my attention shifted to the woman standing in the doorway behind the officer and the little girl on her hip.
I breathed out, relief rushing to the surface of my skin. It was Ashley Runous and her daughter.
The officer glanced at me, then at Ashley. “Sorry, ma’am. I’m just responding to a disturbance.”
My mouth fell open and I nearly choked on the short, hysteria-laden laugh that tumbled from my lips.
Disturbance my ass.
Ashley charged forward, her expression somewhere between confused and mad as hell. “Is that Officer Strickland? What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get your hand off your weapon, you damn fool.”
“Uh . . .” His eyes swung back to mine, not dropping his hand from his weapon, but he did clip it back in place.
By now, Ashley was next to the car and stood between my open window and the officer. “First of all, we have cameras on the house, so don’t you get any ideas. Plus, Bitty Johnson is watching us out her window.” She turned her head and jutted her chin toward the house across the street, quickly rushing to add, “Secondly, Drew is on his way home, and will be here any minute. Thirdly, that”—she pointed at me—“is Simone Payton. Payton.”
I couldn’t see the officer, but I could sense in the silence that he was putting two and two, and two and two together, and that equaled not being able to get away with his present behavior. Also, he must’ve known who my family was because he couldn’t seem to find anything to say.
Ashley made a short, satisfied sound. “Yeah. Right. I see now that you understand your er-ror.” Her tone was hard and angry, and she’d overpronounced the word error, making it two syllables.
She made like she was going to turn to talk to me, but then seemed to think better of it. “You see this man, Bethany? This man is a racist.”
I started in my seat, a new wave of fear crested at Ashley’s overreaction.
Was it an overreaction, though?
I honestly didn’t know. Racist wasn’t a word to be thrown around lightly, and she seemed to know this man well enough to feel comfortable calling him such in front of her daughter.
She continued, “He pulled over your Uncle Juan for no reason. He pulled over this wonderful woman just because of her skin color. Don’t be like this man, Bethany. See people, see their differe
nces, rejoice in those differences, but don’t judge folks for something as stupid as the ability to absorb vitamin D. Racists are ignorant assholes.”
He seemed to puff out his chest. “Now-now-now, see here—”
“You’re really going to try to defend yourself? Really? You just got off suspension for what you did to Sienna’s brother when he had the audacity to visit his family. You just had your hand on your gun. So may I suggest you think long and hard about what you’re going to do next.” She didn’t raise her voice, but I could tell she was furious.
I saw over Ashley’s shoulder that he’d snapped his mouth shut. Now he was turning red. Officer Strickland’s gaze moved to me and his face turned redder. I held my breath.
“I’ll be going,” he said, promptly turning and walking to his car.
I watched him go in my rearview mirror. I watched him slide into his car, start the engine, and leave.
Breathing out, I felt myself deflate.
Thank God.
I looked at Ashley.
“I’m sorry,” she said, a pained expression on her face, like she was apologizing for his behavior.
I wasn’t able to speak. I needed a minute. I was going through too many emotions: relief, anger, gratitude, frustration at needing to be grateful in the first place, guilt for being frustrated for being grateful, more relief.
See? This.
This right here was why I eschewed feelings. Feelings were the worst.
Just say thank you.
I closed my eyes, concentrating on my breathing while my mind slowed.
I should say thank you. I was hugely grateful. But . . .
It stuck in my throat. This was my sister’s part of my personality shining through, this stubbornness, this sense of righteous injustice.
I really liked Ashley Winston. She’d always been kind to me when I was a kid and when she came into the diner. But the fact was that she—a white woman—had been able to holler at Deputy Strickland and get away with it, while I—a black woman—couldn’t reach too fast for my glove box. That wasn’t Ashley’s fault, it just was.
I felt grateful. So grateful.
I also felt wretched and powerless.
I hated feeling powerless.
She huffed. “You’re not the first person he’s harassed. He pulled over Sienna’s brother Juan when he visited. Called him horrible names and demanded his passport. He arrested him on some BS charge, got suspended for three months over it. They should have fired him. I’m sorry if I crossed the line, but that man is just nasty.”
I nodded, putting away my registration, coming down from the adrenaline high.
She wavered, looking embarrassed, eventually blurting, “Will you come inside?”
“No, thank you.” I glanced behind her at nothing in particular, a creeping numbness weighing heavy in my stomach. I figured, while I had her here, I might as well ask the pertinent question. “Do you know where Roscoe is?”
“Actually—” she breathed a short laugh “—I do. He and Drew just finished up at the Park. Drew should be home soon. We have a sitter for tonight and we’re meeting everyone—including Roscoe—at Genie’s for drinks and dancing.” Her stare darted over me. “Do you want to come with? Shelly and Beau will be there.” She added this last bit like it was an incentive.
Usually, she’d be right. The thought of getting to know Shelly Sullivan outside of our monthly chats at the diner was a big pull.
But I had a job to do.
I started my car. “I’ll think about it.” “Uh, do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“Don’t tell my parents about this? Or my cousins. Or Sheriff James.” The last thing I needed was my Aunt Dolly making a fuss about a DWB (driving while black) episode. I needed to keep the lowest of profiles while undercover, and that would certainly draw all the wrong kind of attention.
She looked confused. “Uh—”
“And Genie’s. Thank you for the invite.”
“Okay.” She nibbled on her lip, her eyes anxious. “I hope you come.”
I considered her, my attention moving to her daughter who was looking at me squarely, in that quiet forthright way that kids have, before they learn about guilt and shame and prejudice.
And I decided something.
“Can I give you some advice, Ashley?”
“Advice?” She shifted, redistributing her weight to the hip where her daughter perched. “Yeah. Sure.”
“The next time you see someone behaving like Officer Strickland . . .” I held her gaze with mine and gave her a small, genuine smile. “Absolutely intervene. You did the right thing coming out here, thank you so much for that.”
She studied me, a question between her knotted brows. “But?”
“Not really a but. More like, consider. Instead of rescuing the person being harassed, and if you judge that the person isn’t in imminent danger, may I suggest you amplify that person’s voice instead?”
Ashley tilted her head to the side, her gaze cloudy with confusion. “How do you mean?”
“Next time, ask me if I’m okay and if I’ve been treated fairly. Give me a chance to defend myself, to use my own voice.”
Her blue eyes moved between mine, so like Roscoe’s, and a wobbly half-smile tugged at her lips; her cheeks flushed. “Yes. Okay. I’m sorry.”
“Oh no! Don’t apologize, please don’t!” Crap.
I reached out with my hand, palm up. She held it. We smiled at each other.
“Don’t apologize,” I repeated. “And please, please, please don’t feel bad. God, never feel bad about being an excellent person. Just, if you think of it, let capable people speak for themselves. Let us use our voices. People like Officer—” I thought better of what I was going to say, and restarted, “Wouldn’t it be great if folks everywhere were used to listening—really listening—to people who didn’t look like them? Instead of discounting a voice because it doesn’t come from a mouth and face that resembles theirs, what if they got used to valuing those voices? The only way people learn and change—I believe—is by practicing. So that means we need to give them more opportunities to practice listening. We need more voices like mine speaking to folks like Officer Strickland.”
She nodded, her smile steadier, and sniffed. “That makes sense. I’ll try. But you know how we Winstons are, always poking our beaks into other folks’ business, always squawking, flapping our feathers, out to rescue someone.”
“I don’t typically need to be rescued, so thanks for rescuing me today,” I said, laughing at her description of her family and letting our hands swing gently. “But I’ll never turn down an ally.”
Chapter Six
“One of the keys to happiness is a bad memory.”
Rita Mae Brown
*Roscoe*
Ashley told us the story over drinks at Genie’s.
I’m not going to lie, my first instinct was to go out, find Officer Strickland, and—
“Now there’s a man who deserves leprosy,” Cletus announced, stroking his beard thoughtfully.
Jennifer, sitting next to him, nodded.
“But I’m confused.” Beau scratched his jaw. “Simone was upset with you for sticking up for her? You’d think she’d be grateful.”
Ashley shook her head vehemently. “No. That’s not at all what happened. The sense I got was that Simone was relieved I was there, and grateful, and she’s just so lovely—but can I just say here, how awful is it that she was put in a situation at all where she had to be grateful for someone stepping in and defending her for doing absolutely nothing but driving her car, so frustrating—”
“Think of it this way,” Shelly cut in, likely because Ashley was getting herself all worked up again, and turned to Beau. “If someone was yelling at you and threatening you for no reason, and Jackson James came over to diffuse the situation, would you want a chance to use your own voice? Or would you be fine with Jackson James always speaking for you?”
“Okay, yeah. I see your poi
nt.” Beau nodded thoughtfully.
“And,” Cletus added, “in addition to providing my services for ally amplification, I know where the armadillos are.”
Drew chuckled, exchanging a glance with Beau, who was also chuckling. I didn’t know why they were laughing, it wasn’t funny.
“Why are you laughing?” I demanded, working hard to keep my voice steady. “You wouldn’t think it was funny if it happened to Shelly,” then to Drew I said, “or to Ash.”
Drew’s expression softened. “No, no, Roscoe. We’re laughing at the idea of giving Strickland leprosy, not at what happened to Simone.”
Beau chimed in, “I assure you, this could have happened to anyone and I’d be equally delighted at the prospect of Cletus’s plan.”
“Cletus has had this idea in his back pocket for years, just waiting for the right asshole to use it on.” This came from Jenn and, I swear, even in my current state, I think I gasped. I’d never, not in my whole life, heard Jennifer cuss. Not once.
I wasn’t the only one shocked. Ashley, Beau, and Drew were all staring at her, equally flummoxed.
But Cletus didn’t seem surprised.
Neither did Shelly.
“Let me know if you need help catching armadillos.” Shelly set her beer down, turning to Cletus. “I can build a trap.”
“I’ll help too,” I said.
But the idea of revenge didn’t help the sick feeling in my stomach or the rage pounding through my veins.
I wish I’d been there. I would have . . .
I probably would have gotten myself arrested. Or shot. Or both.
“We’re not giving anyone leprosy,” Ashley cut in, giving each of us in turn a look that communicated she meant business. “We’re filing a report with Sheriff James. That man needs to be fired. We’ll do this the right way.”
Cletus continued to stroke his beard thoughtfully. “And if that doesn’t work, we’re all agreed.” He hit the table with his closed fist, as though it were a gavel. “Leprosy it is.”