by Jayce, Aven
“It’s time to leave,” Leondra pronounces in a tone that allows no room for any argument. Tears roll down her face as she looks down at Carl, but she stands strong and her instruction to her son is clear. “Cove, take Sophia to Wayne and Lydia’s and they’ll help you. They’ll get you back to St. Louis. You need to leave now so we can finish here.”
“Mother, no. I’m not going without you,” his voice direct. “What are you doing? I don’t understand what just happened. I... I can’t....”
Sirens sound in the distance. Someone called the police... or a neighbor heard the shots and saw the rush of the guests to their cars. I listen and they grow louder with each passing second.
“Dayne, go to your office and get what you need from your files. No more talking, no arguing, just get it done. Meet me on the landing in forty-five seconds.”
Dayne runs out and David takes Cove’s arm, leading him down the hall.
“Sophia, follow him and do exactly what he says. Trust us,” Leondra says, as she helps me up and I race down the hall in a panic. David pushes Cove into the bedroom suite, his opposition to the plan glaringly apparent.
“Trust me, you little fuck. There’s no time to fight.” The sirens approach as Cove is thrown to the bed. I lie next to him and curl into a tiny ball, back to the fetal position. “Both of you,” David raises his finger at us. “Not a word comes out of your mouths, nothing. You don’t have to talk to the police without a lawyer present. Don’t say anything until we figure everything out, and don’t try to leave this room. It’s important that you’re in here. Change your clothes quickly... Sophia, get out of that dress.”
The door closes and I hear it lock. My God.
There’s a whisper in the hall, then I hear Dayne and David exchange words before Dayne’s voice grows in intensity as he approaches this end of the hall.
“I need to report a shooting, two people are down,” he says as he passes the door. “This is Dayne Rosen, head of security for Paul Jameson, this is his house.”
“He’s calling 911,” I whisper. The police sirens are just outside, and in a matter of seconds I hear the front door burst open. I wonder what happened to Trey? I place my hand on Cove’s arm and he pulls me into a deep hug. “Who shot my father?”
“I don’t know, Baby. I just hope it wasn’t my mother. We need to get up and change our clothes.”
He stands and opens our suitcases. I fucking hate it that he still has a grin on his face from the drug, while two people lay dead in the other room. Quickly, I pull off the dress, tuck it away, slide into my jeans, and pull my sweatshirt over my head with my tank underneath. Cove hurries out of his party clothes and pulls on a pair of jeans. The scar on his shoulder from my father’s company, and the NOVA tattoo on his chest are quickly obscured by a white t-shirt. We sit on the end of the bed and listen to the rush of police in the house.
“Up here,” Dayne calls out. “Down at this end.”
Cove takes my hand and kisses the top of my head. “Tell them everything, Soph.”
I sob against his chest, unable to think straight or grasp what just transpired over the past couple of hours. Fuck, over the past week for that matter. “David said....”
“Tell them you were a prisoner here, and about the tattoo and the contract. Let them know about the Keep and the party.”
“What about you?”
“You can say what you want about me.”
“No, I meant what are you going to say?” I weep.
He bites his bottom lip and hesitates while listening to the voices in the hall.
“Get down, get down. Drop the gun.”
“I was the one who called you.”
“Drop the gun and get on the ground! Get on the ground, get on the ground now!”
A second voice sounds outside the door. “Bring em’ in... haul in everyone for questioning... check all the rooms... what the fuck happened here? Search all these rooms now!”
“Two dead... call it in.”
“Stay down! Stay the fuck down!”
“I am down you fuck, I’m the one who called you douchebags.”
The sounds in the house move from the first floor to the backyard, then into the hall, and finally to my father’s office. I can hear that Cove is breathing deeply as we sit and wait, his hand gripped around mine so firmly that I feel like he’s cutting off the circulation in my fingers.
“What happened in that room?” I whisper.
“I don’t know,” he sighs. “I think Paul shot Carl, and then someone shot Paul. Or Carl could’ve shot Paul first and then Dayne shot Carl, or maybe one person shot both of them. I just don’t know.”
I jump at the loud crack of the door breaking open in the next room over. My head falls into my cold, shaky hands; tears roll down my cheeks as Cove nestles the side of his face against my head.
“I love you, Sophia... I’m sorry about your father,” he whispers. “I felt it you know. I knew this was coming. My mind keeps telling my body that I should be feeling a ton of emotions right now, I should be crying, screaming, pacing and punching the walls, but I can’t. It won’t come out. I feel horrible.”
The door handle turns and the piercing sound of splintering wood echoes through the suite as two men enter with guns pointed toward us.
“Show me your hands!” one yells.
“Get on the ground, hands over your head, down on the ground!” the other one shouts. I fall to the floor, place my hands behind my head and close my eyes. “Is anyone else in here?”
“No,” Cove quickly responds, on the floor next to me. “It’s just the two of us.”
“Everyone in this house is under arrest for probable cause for murder. Take them into custody. Read them their rights and bring them in,” a deep voice says from the hallway. “Get the wheels in motion at the station so we can begin the questioning. This is the Jameson house, it’s gonna be all over the news soon. Get them out of here before any reporters arrive. Clear this fucking house!”
Cold handcuffs are slapped harshly against my wrists, I’m yanked to my feet, as an officer leads Cove out the bedroom door; our rights read to us on our way to the first floor.
You have the right to remain silent. If you do say anything, what you say can be used against you in a court of law.
I’m in a dream-like state as my mind and body float down the stairs into the dimly lit great room.
You have the right to consult with a lawyer and have that lawyer present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you if you so desire.
Candles flicker, drinks are spilled, and the sound system hammers out the music of Lorde.
If you choose to talk to the police officer, you have the right to stop the interview at any time.
Cove turns his head; his eyes pained when he sees my face. The tears streaming down my cheeks, my trembling body, and the fact that I can’t catch my breath, all point to a severe emotional breakdown. My God, two people are dead. My father was killed, and Carl... Jesus, Carl’s dead. Why would someone shoot him? I can’t believe my father’s gone. I hated him all this week but... I just don’t know how to... what’s going to happen... why are we being arrested? Am I going to jail?
We’re led outside into the night where I see Lydia talking to an officer. Why is she here? I wonder if she called them... the police... did she know? Then I see Wayne. He’s here as well.
An officer places a hand on top of Cove’s head, guiding him into the back of a police car. They’re separating us. No. Please, no.
“Cove!” I scream, as an officer places me in the back of the other car. My foot comes in contact with his shin and he shoves my face down onto the seat. I hear the door slam shut and I’m locked in. “Cove,” I sob.
The car moves down the sloped driveway and turns onto the street. I pull myself up and gaze into the flashing red lights of the car ahead of us. My eyes fall to Cove’s silhouette and remain fixed there for most of the ride to the station. A light rain patters against the b
ack window of the car, an eerie imitation of the water flowing down my face. I can’t stop crying. My body... mind... I’m losing control.
“Aargh!” I yell and kick the back seat, frustrated, angry, hyperventilating. “They’re not dead! No!” I kick the seat again and then slump down on the floor in a ball.
“Get up,” one of the officers demands. “Back on the seat, now!” I ignore his request and drop my head between my knees, my hands still cuffed behind my back.
The car stops and I hear one of the officers step out and yank the door open. I’m pulled up to the seat and the door is shut as he slides in next to me.
“Take off, I’ll stay back here with her.”
“Don’t try anything, Parker. She’s not one of the prostitutes from the street you know. Jameson women are a higher class, plus we need to get right to the station, you don’t have time to fool around.”
I slide away from the officer and look ahead to Cove whose profile pacifies my fear of the unknown. I trace his silhouette with my eyes as if my hand were touching his face, over his brows, down his nose, over his soft lips, and across his chiseled jawline. I trick my mind into believing I can actually feel him, my eyes close and I inhale deeply, hold my breath and then exhale. It’s what he’d tell me to do if he was sitting next to me. Inhale. Exhale. Slow breaths.
“Daddy!” I cry out, unable to stay in control. “Dad, I’m sorry!”
“Parker, now.”
“Got it,” the officer next to me says, then slides closer to my side. “You want to tell me what happened in that house tonight? Did you see who shot those two people?”
“Daddy,” I sob.
“Hey, you can call your father from the station after we get some information from you. Why don’t you start by telling me your name?” The only sounds out of my mouth are moans of grief and cries of sadness. He takes my hand and asks me again. “Hey, look at me. We’re just bringing you in to talk to you about what went on in that house tonight. We need answers. Let’s start with who you are and then we can take it from there.”
I take a deep breath, turn to him, and whisper my response between fighting gasps of air. “My name is Sophia Jameson. I’m Paul Jameson’s daughter, and I know my rights. If I’m not free to go, I’m going to remain silent.”
“No shit,” he says in a soft voice. “Paul’s daughter?”
“Did she just say she’s Paul Jameson’s daughter?” the officer from the front asks.
“Who shot your father?”
We pull to the front door of the precinct and the conversation ends abruptly as I’m led into the building, through a metal detector and into a room where I’m asked to give my name, address, date of birth, and Social Security number. An officer then removes the handcuffs, fingerprints me, and I’m taken to central booking. I’m placed in a cell, alone, cold, and still soaked with tears. I sit on a metal bench along the side wall that feels separated from the rest of the tiny space. Looking down, the metallic surface of the bench reflects the despair that’s been imprinted on my face.
I spend hours pacing around the holding cell. Why am I alone? What happened to Cove, Leondra, and Dayne? What if Dayne tells the police that Cove and I shot my father? I’m paranoid. My thoughts swirl in every direction, and without a clue as to what’s going on with everyone else, I’m at a loss as to what to think. Finally, the door to the hallway opens and two women walk toward the cell. One is in plain clothes, but wears a badge and a gun on her belt, so I’ll assume she’s part of some law enforcement unit. She flashes a faint smile through the cold metal bars as the second officer unlocks the door.
“Sophia Jameson? I’m Detective Hayes from the Las Vegas Police Department homicide unit. I have a few questions to ask you, would you follow me please.”
I’m directed to an interrogation room. A grey metal table is in the middle of the space with two wooden chairs on either side. A microphone rests on the desk, along with a digital recorder and a coffee cup. The room is desolate and bleak; white walls, a dark tiled floor, and fluorescent lighting. I’m given a bottle of water and asked to take a seat.
“Miss Jameson, I’d like to talk to you about your father and Cove Everton.”
“Cove? Why?” I grasp to push the words out of my mouth as my throat constricts from hours spent in tears. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“I don’t know, do you? Are you requesting a lawyer?” she hesitates, and takes a sip of her coffee. I’m silent and she continues. “Why don’t we start with what you said in the police car? The officers said you cried for your father, and you mentioned you were sorry. What are you sorry for? Can you tell us what you did?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“What are you sorry for?”
“That he... he’s dead. He’s gone, isn’t he? He... someone killed him,” I choke up. “And Carl too. I’m sorry they’re gone. I’m sorry I wished ill will on my father.”
“So you wanted your father dead?” she asks.
“He kidnapped me.”
“Come again?”
“My father locked me in a bedroom in his house for days, and when I was finally let out of the room, I wasn’t allowed to leave the house. I was a prisoner. Cove as well. He forced us to work for his company.”
“What is your relationship with Cove Everton?”
“Can I see him?”
“He’s in interrogation. Can you answer my question?”
A middle-aged man opens the door and interrupts the questioning. “Hayes, Sarge needs to speak to us about the Jameson case, he’s waiting in his office.” The detective stands and follows him out while I’m left in isolation from the outside world.
They can’t think that I did this, Dayne and Leondra will let them know what happened. They were in the room when the shots went off... I think. What if Leondra shot my father? Cove will be devastated if he loses her. Oh my God, how am I going to get out of here? What if Dayne blames Cove and me and we both go to prison? If Dayne shot someone he’d pin it on us to get off, I know it. I just know it. I break down in tears as the detective re-enters the room.
“Miss Jameson, come with me. I need to take you back to holding.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Hours pass, and then an entire day. I’ve cried, screamed, kicked the concrete block walls, declined the food I’ve been given, and have now begun talking to myself. The desolate cell is trying on my mental state, and as I grieve, I’m in need of human contact. Carl’s been on my mind, especially the photograph of him and Cove’s father. I wonder how Leondra knows him. She called him Patrick.
I’m finally able to calm down enough to sleep for a couple of hours, and as I descend into a nightmare about the party at my father’s house, a beautiful voice enters my head. As I slowly awake and my vision clears, I see a woman in the cell across from me singing the most-lovely rendition of Blackbird, my favorite Beatles song. Mera and I used to walk home late at night from the bars during college and sing it to one another as we staggered and giggled our way to our apartment.
I stand and place my hands on the bars as she hums and sings, her voice traveling down the sterile hallway, through each cell, and bouncing off the bleak walls. She’s pretty, older than me, with strands of shiny brown hair dyed a deep shade of pink. She catches me staring and smiles. Still singing, she walks to the bars and mirrors my grip on the cold metal. The melody ebbs and flows and pacifies my heartache, a pain I currently feel in places I never knew existed. Her eyes are a silver blue reminding me of Mera’s Irish blue eyes. I long for the touch of my friend, to inhale the scent of her hair, to hold her hand as we walk to get a bite to eat, and to sit up late with her as we talk about our lives. A tear rolls down my cheek and the woman across from me closes her eyes and shakes her head, signaling that everything’s going to be alright. She extracts the sorrow from my body through the song and I relax and breathe for what seems like the first time in days. It’s amazing what music can do for the soul.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice t
he detective approaching my cell as I continue to watch and listen to the peaceful music. She opens the door, takes my arm, and I’m pulled out of the holding area. I turn and smile at the woman who winks, reminding me of the final exchange between my father and myself. I look back again as the song comes to an abrupt end, and she’s gone. I don’t know if she stepped further back into her cell, or if I imagined the entire thing. Whatever just happened, whether she was real or not, it gave me a renewed sense of hope. I’m ready to talk.
“Miss Jameson, have a seat. I need to ask you some questions about what we found in your father’s house.”
I sit and notice that this room is also equipped with a digital recording system. The table and chairs are all wood and a long table rests against a side wall with three computer monitors facing outward. Various equipment is hooked up to the monitors, including a DVD player and microphone. The dark tile floors and cool white walls are the same as every other area I’ve been in on this floor. The style is institutional, and I feel insecure as a result of the minimal color and lack of any embellishments. I suppose that’s the whole point.
“Where’re Cove and Leondra?”
“Leondra Everton was released a few hours ago. Mr. Everton is on his way down from holding. You’ll see him soon.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Now please, we need to go over a few things.”
“You’re not making this up just to get me to talk to you, are you? I’ve heard that cops will do those kinda things.”
She smiles then slides a slip of paper across the table. “This is a copy of a letter that was found on Patrick Everton’s body.”
“Patrick Everton?” I gasp. “Carl was an Everton?”
“Yes, Patrick and Cove’s father are... were cousins. Apparently at one time, they were very close.”
I place my fingers over the sheet of paper and inhale before turning it over to read his words. I’m anxious, yet terrified of what I may read.
A letter to the Las Vegas Police Department,
My name is Patrick Carl Everton, son of William Earl Everton and Patricia Ann Williams of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. My current place of residence is Las Vegas, Nevada, where I’ve lived for fifteen years with my partner, Jonathon Barry. Please inform my family that I love them, and what I did has no reflection on the way I was raised, anything they have done, or former interactions or arguments between us. Please let them know they couldn’t have prevented the murder of Paul Jameson.