by Debra Driza
Sonja half sat, half collapsed onto the couch. Not sure what to do, Lucas and I hovered. She shoved the walker out of her way to kick her legs out, flicking her wrist at the chairs. “Sorry, not much on manners these days. Sit.”
Lucas took the chair closest to her, but she ignored him. Her attention remained focused on me as I perched on the edge of the other chair.
I prepared to launch back into our spiel, but Sonja beat me to it.
“I knew this day would come,” she said, brown eyes unflinching. “I knew someone besides Edgar had to suspect what happened to that little girl. Your cousin.”
Finally.
“What did happen to her?” I asked.
Sonja squeezed her eyes shut, the air leeching from her lungs in a gasp. Her cough was a hacking, ravaged sound that made me cringe.
Lucas half rose in his chair, but she waved him back down. “Can I get you something? Water?” he said, once the spell had ended.
“Water won’t fix what I’ve got. Thank you, though.” She seemed to notice him for the first time, but she turned her attention back to me. “What happened to her? I wish I knew. But one thing’s for sure—someone sure as hell wanted to make sure there weren’t any questions.”
Her gaze strayed over to the brick fireplace. Several framed photos were neatly arranged, but she only had eyes for one.
A picture of her and Edgar Blythe. She appeared to be in good health, so it must have been taken several years ago.
“He was a good man, Edgar. A friend, and a damn decent cop. No one will ever convince me that he died in some hiking accident. Bull. For a cop, that man was as cautious as they came. Hated the rain and cold. He’d no more go hiking in a storm than I’d go run a marathon right now.”
“So, you think . . . he was killed?” Lucas asked without flinching. He put it right out there.
“Damn right, I do. I didn’t want to believe him, you know. Not at first.” Her voice softened, like she was recalling good memories. “I told him he was working too hard. That he was talking crazy—who would want to pretend a fire was an accident if it were arson? All his talk of cover-ups. That kind of stuff can end your career.”
She glanced at the photo again, and her eyes misted. Reminding us that much more than a man’s career had ended over this.
“I asked him to show me what he had, what proof. But he refused. He avoided me like I had the plague. I thought maybe he’d gone off the deep end. Right up until the call came in . . .”
Sonja’s chin dropped to her chest. I waited for her to collect herself, guilt tightening like a noose around my neck. This woman was clearly ill, and here I was, asking her to relive one of the worst moments of her life. Part of me thought I should leave her in peace. But I knew I couldn’t do that. I needed all the information I could gather. If I knew the truth about the past, I might be able to stop Holland in the future.
When Sonja lifted her head, her eyes gleamed with unshed tears, but her voice was stronger. “All along, he’d been trying to protect me. He let me do some early work with him on the case, but he cut me off. To keep me safe, I think. After he died, I put in for a transfer. I got it immediately. Like maybe someone wanted me gone, I don’t know.”
She leaned forward and grabbed the handgrips on her walker. “Wait here.”
She shuffle-stepped across the room to a tall wooden vase on a pedestal table. She lifted it and unscrewed the bottom with a deft twist. A curled piece of paper slid out. She turned and brought the scrap back to the couch.
“This came in the mail, ’bout a month after Edgar died. Don’t know how he did it, or why me. There was a note too, but I destroyed it. He tried to be sly about what he shared, but I figured if I knew what he was saying, someone else might, too.”
Another coughing fit overtook her, longer this time.
“Stupid lungs. Just about worthless. Anyway, he told me not to talk if someone came asking questions. Not that I had much to say—he’d never told me much. But now I have nothing to lose. . . .”
I inched forward, hoping there was more to the story than that.
“He said he’d taken on a new filing system. No idea what he meant until I saw the slip of paper he included with the note.”
She uncurled her hand and extended the paper to me. I smoothed it out so I could read the words.
The bold black letters jumped off the page.
2240
A case number. Similar to Sarah’s, but older.
A spark of realization electrified me.
“He deliberately misfiled the evidence.”
“That’s what I think, too,” Sonja agreed. “I think he knew he was in trouble, but couldn’t bring himself to get rid of the evidence. So he hid it, in case someone else might be able to use it in the future.”
And here we were. The people from the future. And also from the past.
Lucas rested his elbows on his knees. “That evidence—would it still be at the station?”
She looked at him intently, then shook her head. “Closed cases or dead ends go to the local warehouse for storage.”
As Lucas prodded her for info, I assessed her body language and vitals for the fifth time. No hint of lying. Still, there was something else I needed to know.
“Why are you talking about this now? You could have spoken up any time.”
Sonja nodded, as though she’d been expecting that question. “I’m not ashamed to admit that I was scared. If they could take out Edgar like that, then I knew nothing would stop them from going after me next.” She pointed at her tube. “I’ve got nothing to be frightened of now. Stage four lung cancer. If they come to kill me, they’d barely be cheating the reaper.”
She jutted her chin out, but shivered a little. Lucas rose, grabbing the blanket from the back of the couch and arranging the soft material around her shoulders. He stooped until they were eye level. “Thank you. You have no idea how much it means to us.”
I saw him give her hand a gentle squeeze before he straightened. “Do you need anything before we go? Hot tea, something to eat?”
She shooed him away with her hands, but from the softening around her eyes, I could tell she was touched.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” she said.
“Don’t say that; you’ve been a huge help,” I replied.
Sonja raised a curious eyebrow at me. “Now that you mention it, what am I helping you do exactly?”
I squirmed, realizing she wasn’t fully buying our cover story. “Just filling in all the gaps. We’ve always wondered—”
“Then why is your friend asking where the files are kept?” she interjected, pointing her thumb at Lucas. “You want actual proof. Evidence of a conspiracy. But why?”
Lucas scratched the back of his head and glanced at the floor, so I blurted out a quick response that I hoped would satisfy her. “We’re actually private investigators. Hired by Sarah’s parents. They want to sue the police and fire departments for mishandling the case.”
She cracked out a sharp laugh that turned into a choking cough. “You seriously expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but it doesn’t matter what you believe,” Lucas said, gently but firmly. “We have our reasons for needing the documentation and they don’t really concern you.”
It was strange, hearing Lucas shut Sonja down like that, but he was right to do it. We couldn’t give her any more leeway to question us. Not because she was a threat per se, but because trusting anyone with our real motives left us vulnerable.
Sonja didn’t seem offended at all.
“I respect that,” she said, wiping the corner of her mouth on her sleeve. “But the people who are involved in this won’t care what your reasons are either. They’ll do anything to make sure you don’t get too close to what they’re hiding.”
I thanked her for her concern as Lucas made his way toward the door. His hand was on the handle when Sonja called out to us. “Do either of you own a gun?”
L
ucas froze in the doorframe. I turned, remembering that we left Tim’s weapon back at the cabin. Lucas couldn’t even look at it after what had happened with the bear, and after my post-Peyton shock syndrome, I hadn’t wanted to touch one again. But none of that changed the fact that we could have used the protection.
“No, we don’t,” I said.
“Then there’s one more thing I can give you before you go,” said Sonja, before violently coughing into her fist.
An hour later, Lucas and I were idling outside the police warehouse Sonja had mentioned. From inside the Caprice, we could see that the street leading into the industrial complex was deserted, which was good news for us. But our luck turned when we pulled up to the automatic gate. Locked. Not a surprise, but a disappointment. I didn’t want anything to slow us down.
I opened my mind and linked with the signal flowing from the computer that controlled the lock.
Code streamed, in the form of a demand.
Access code required.
I assimilated the code, twisting and forming it into a precise combination of zeros and ones that I needed to communicate with the security system. A back-and-forth, as fluid and easy as a ballet. I led the system through all the intricate steps of the dance before demanding the access code.
One second, two seconds. Three, four—
At 4.54 seconds, the code was mine.
My android brain shot the radio waves back at the sensor, and the gate computer accepted them. A whir and click later, the gate opened, and I drove inside, headlights off.
Night vision: Activated.
The street ahead gleamed before me, tinged in red but perfectly visible. We crept past a line of warehouses until we reached the one on the far right. I slowed and turned at the corner, parking next to a row of Dumpsters. Hopefully the buildings blocked the view of the Caprice from the road, and the Dumpsters would obscure the view from the north end of the complex.
Once the engine was off, the complex fell eerily silent. The only discernable noise came from cars in the distance. I’d take eerie silence over the blare of alarms any day. Especially the internal kind, ones that signaled I’d be blown to bits within two hours.
In my mind’s eye, I saw Holland, reaching for the switch.
“You ready for your first adventure as a hardened criminal?” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
Lucas laughed. “I think I already had that when I aided and abetted your escape.”
With trembling fingers, I reached under the seat for the gun that Sonja gave us. Just as my palm grazed the grip, I felt Lucas’s hand on my arm.
“You sure we’re going to need that?” His voice was soft. Barely audible. I was grateful for bionic hearing.
My fingers curled around the handle. I understood his apprehension. But Sonja’s warning about Edgar—that he was killed for seeking the truth—added another layer of danger to our quest. I had to protect Lucas. And I wasn’t sure our special abilities were enough, considering how much power Holland wielded.
I placed the gun in my lap and stared down at it, reliving that moment at Quinn’s for what seemed like the millionth time. I didn’t want anyone else to die.
“This is for worst-case-scenario use only,” I said. “And I promise, no fatalities.”
Lucas nodded grudgingly, and pulled a ski mask out of his pocket. I did the same. We planned to immobilize the video cameras while we were here, but these masks were an added precaution. The last thing we needed was an APB out on Lucas, too. I chewed my lip. His extended absence from SMART Ops was probably raising suspicions by now. Holland would catch on. It was only a matter of time.
“Mila? The video cameras?” Lucas said, pulling me out of my thoughts.
Right.
Signals from surrounding buildings hovered in my head.
IndustMax Wi-Fi.
JenningsCorp Wi-Fi.
RCHoldings security.
PPD security.
PPD—Philadelphia Police Department. There it was.
The connection streamed between me and their network. Within a few seconds, I located the video-camera server and in a few more seconds, had the server down. Then, I overrode the security alarm in much the same way I had the gate.
I pulled my own knit mask over my head while he grabbed the passenger-door handle. “Remember, we shouldn’t stay too long. Fifteen minutes tops.”
I nodded, stuffing the gun in the back waistband of my pants, and opened my own door. Walking as quietly as possible, we headed over to the building’s side entrance. The alarm was down, but the door was also hand locked by key. I considered shooting at the lock, but the sound would reverberate and signal an intrusion to whomever might be guarding the interior.
I closed my eyes. Then my sensors whirred as they analyzed the properties of the door, providing me with a readout on the thickness, type of hinge, and force necessary to dislodge it.
There wasn’t any other choice. Lucas stood back, giving me space. My shoulder hit the wood with a fluid, swift motion. Crack! We froze in place when the noise rang out in the still air. Sharp, but not loud enough to draw any attention.
At least, that was what I hoped.
We sidled inside the door and pulled it shut behind us, even though the lock no longer engaged. A small reception area greeted us, with an oversize desk located behind a wall and a barred window. The room was tiny and utilitarian, with paint peeling off the walls and a stained cement floor. Directly through the secured desk area was another door.
After another crunch of snapping metal, we were inside the warehouse itself.
My heart plummeted as soon as we eased open the door. The space was bigger than I’d hoped. Rows upon rows of shelves greeted us, housing objects of all different shapes and sizes. In fact, at first I almost thought we’d made some kind of mistake. I’d been expecting a mass of bland-looking evidence boxes, but instead there was a rainbow of colors here.
“Need a skateboard?” I whispered. They were neatly arranged in little cubbies, their brightly hued wheels and decals cheering the warehouse workers, I imagined.
Lucas spun a wheel with one gloved hand. “Let’s try this way,” he said, jerking his head to the next row over.
“You take right, I go left?” I said, eying the masses of evidence with trepidation.
Lucas nodded, and we split up. He went in search of Sarah’s actual case file, 4220, while I searched for the one in Blythe’s letter: 2440.
I wandered through the first row, which was crammed with items from floor to ceiling. Boxes, all boxes. I was only at 3500, so I kept moving. I rounded the corner and hurried through the next row. And the next.
I was six rows in before the numbers started to get close. 3900, 4100, and there, on the middle shelf. 2440.
With an unsteady hand, I reached for the box, set it on the floor, and removed the lid. Dust flew up, clouding my eyes. On top was a layer of papers all marked with the case number, involving a pyromaniac and property damage.
Wrong fire. I set them aside, barely daring to hope. What if this was a wild-goose chase?
My hands sifted through more papers, my fingers digging downward. My breath hitched when at first, I felt nothing. Just more papers, and cardboard.
No.
But before the first whispers of defeat could take hold, I grazed something slick. Plastic.
The first bag contained a piece of a timer, its wires frayed like an old hem. The second bag held a red bottle, quart-sized. Butane. A popular accelerant. The tags on the evidence marked them as belonging to case 4220. Sarah’s case.
My fists closed around the items while the warehouse receded, replaced by a wall of blazing orange. The musty smell of old paper turned into the acrid sear of smoke.
The flames blocked me from going forward. So suffocatingly hot. No air.
My throat constricted in response.
“Sarah?” I staggered to the ground, too weak to stand. Was that Dad’s voice, calling out to me . . . or was it a hallucination? Because
I suddenly felt so drowsy, my limbs like rubber. If I could rest my head . . . just nap, just for a little while . . .
The memory faded, leaving something hard and cold beneath my head. I opened my eyes and blinked at the barren surroundings from my supine position on the floor. I bolted upright, my synthetic heartbeat in a frenzied state. The girl I’d been—or rather, who I’d been made to re-create—had been murdered. With every minute, I was sure of it. Her fear, her suffering, it was all mine. We were one and the same. I still didn’t know why he’d done it, but the man behind the crime was still at large.
I opened the third bag with fingers that still shook. At first, I thought it was empty. Then I caught a glint of something, in the far corner. I pinched the bit of metal between my fingers. Just a fragment; what looked like the remains of a pin. Like something you’d put on your shirt, or your coat, for a bit of bling. The metal was misshapen, and only a hint of color was left on the front. Green, yellow, and blue. I didn’t know what the design was supposed to be, but I knew one thing for sure: if Edgar Blythe had hidden it, then he had identified the fragment and determined it was significant.
I returned the timer piece and accelerant to the shelves once I took pictures of them, but I shoved the pin in my pocket. I hurried down the row until I found Lucas, and filled him in with a hushed whisper. Then we quickly made our way toward the door to the reception office, where my exit plan came to a screeching halt.
I threw my arm in front of Lucas to stop him
Human threat detected: 45 ft.
Subject armed.
Weapons scan: .45-caliber pistol.
“Security guard. Turn off the flashlight,” I whispered.
Lucas fumbled with the button. The light went off at the same time I heard footsteps on the other side of the door. I spun and pulled Lucas behind me, aware of the thwack of my shoes on the concrete as I tried to balance speed with stealth. I veered us down a row of boxes. Lucas stumble-hopped behind me, but didn’t complain, even though his human eyes couldn’t possibly pick out much in the pitch dark.
Target advancing.
35 ft.
Another metallic clink sounded. My pulse leapt, while the weapon in my waistband grew heavy. We needed to clear the end of the row before the guard entered, or it would all be over. He’d hear us, and I’d be forced to take aim.