Jennifer D. Bokal - Rocky Mountain Valor

“No,” Petra snapped. “I didn’t put my phone in Joe Owens’s pool.” She wanted to be helpful, but she had almost reached her limit. “Is this going to take much longer? I did come here voluntarily,” she reminded the cop.

“Do you want a lawyer?”

“Do I need one?” she fired back.

“I just have a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”

Petra blew out a breath. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Martinez scribbled a note. “You were on a radio show this morning. Steve Chan’s, Hot Seat.”

Petra wasn’t sure if it was a question or statement. She answered him anyway. “I was.”

“And what was the nature of your visit to the show?”

“Joe Owens.”

“Anything in particular about Joe?”

Petra didn’t like that Martinez kept using her client’s first name—as if the championship MVP and the cop were somehow friends. “And how is my client?” she asked.

Martinez shook his head. “Not good.”

Petra bit her lip. “Any prognosis?”

Martinez looked at the file, flipping through the first few pages. “None that I know of. Let’s get back to the radio interview. Is it true that, on air, you threatened to strangle Joe Owens?”

Her face tingled. Her hands lay on the table, too heavy to lift. Her throat was unbelievably dry. She swallowed. “It was hyperbolic,” she said. “You know, for effect.”

“I understand hyperbole, Ms. Sloane,” said the detective.

She began to sweat. “And besides, Steve Chan made a joke about all of Joe’s recent scandals and asked me if I ever wanted to wring his neck.”

“And then,” Martinez continued, “didn’t you threaten to outright kill Joe Owens the second time you called his cell phone?”

“I was angry. I didn’t mean anything by it. It was just...”

“Hyperbole,” Martinez offered.

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“You tell me. Do you?” He closed the file. “I want to believe that you had nothing to do with the attack on Joe, really I do. But you threatened his life twice today. You were covered in blood when the police arrived, your fingerprints are on the alarm. Yet you claim to have no memories of anything that transpired for over forty-five minutes. What am I supposed to think?”

“I don’t know,” she said. Her voice was small, even in the tiny room. “I have migraines and sometimes I black out, but can still be on my feet, talking and active. I had an episode this morning.”

Lying, or concealing her ailment, would only make things worse, she knew. Why was it that she wanted to keep these most important details from Martinez? Yet Petra wasn’t stupid. With her admission she’d certainly become a person of interest—maybe even a suspect.

She dug her fingernails into her palm and continued. “I lost consciousness. That’s why I can’t remember.”

Martinez bounced his pen on the file. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. “Then I guess I was wrong.”

She looked him in the eye. “About what?”

“You do need a lawyer. I’m naming you as a person of interest in the attack on Joe Owens.”

* * *

For Petra, the next seven hours passed in a haze. She cleared out her savings to pay the retainer for a lawyer who had a reputation for being both honest and brilliant. He’d gotten the police to release her car and her purse, and Petra waited alone by the precinct parking lot. A police officer pulled up next to the curb and said nothing as Petra slid into her seat and drove away.

She felt as if she should call someone and check in. But who? Then again, she didn’t have a phone.

With nothing beyond her thoughts for company, she couldn’t help but recall the last time she had blacked out. She’d been a sophomore in college and her mother had called to let Petra know that her father’s CAT scan looked suspicious. Then Petra found out that her roommate had stolen her boyfriend, when she saw them making out on campus. The headache had begun much like it had today. More than a decade ago, she’d lost almost an hour. When she came to, she’d had a pair of scissors in her hand and had cut her own hair.

What bothered Petra then, as it did now, was the fact that she had the potential to destroy. It was her most closely guarded secret and still she couldn’t help but wonder, what did that say about Petra as a person?

She’d never answered the question before. Could she now?

Turning down her street, she saw her condominium complex come into view. The front gate was ablaze with lights from a dozen different TV vans, all the local stations and two cable news networks. Her heart stilled as she stared, wide-eyed. Petra expected that the media would learn of her involvement, but she’d hoped that it would take time, as in days—not hours.

Now what? She eased her foot off the gas and the car slowed.

Petra had no desire to drive through the gauntlet of reporters and questions, to have her privacy invaded by the press. But what else was she supposed to do? Drive around all night?

She heard a sharp knock on her car window. With a start, she turned to the noise. A man in a Colorado Mustangs ball cap stood outside the car. He slapped the glass.

“You,” he said, pointing a shaking finger. “I saw you on TV. You deserve to rot in jail until you die for what you did.”

In the distance, she saw a group of reporters turn in her direction. Microphones in hand and cameramen on their heels, they ran toward her car. She didn’t like her chances in a tussle with the media. Or the crackpot in the ball cap, for that matter.

Jerking the gearshift into Reverse, she dropped her foot on the accelerator. The tires screamed. A cloud of smoke surrounded her. The taste of burning asphalt clung to her lips. She backed up the street, and at the intersection, turned the steering wheel and sped away.

Her heart raced and her pulse thrummed at the nape of her neck. For a time she drove without thought, but all the while Petra knew where she was going. She turned onto the tree-lined street, and her eye was drawn to the Tudor-style home midway up the block. She pulled in to the circular drive and stopped in front of the wooden door. Dark windows stared out like blank eyes. She turned off the ignition and stepped into the rapidly cooling evening air. Petra wrapped her arms over her chest as her flip-flops slapped across the pavement.

She rang the bell. Chimes echoed. The lights remained dark, the house silent.

No one was home, but how long until someone would return? Minutes? Hours? Days?

Coming here was a bad decision, made in a moment of weakness. She considered leaving—renting a hotel room and waiting for the media to get tired of camping out at her condo complex. Then again, she needed more than a place to hide. She needed help and protection. She needed to be here.

Petra made a deal with herself. The door was controlled by an electronic lock. If the combination hadn’t been changed, Petra would take it as a sign, and stay. If not, she’d leave.

She pressed the first number. The second. The third. Then she entered the final number. She gripped the handle and pulled down. The door swung open.

She stepped inside and quickly turned on the light. A grandfather clock stood in the corner and began to ring out the quarter hour. She closed the door and inhaled deeply. The scent was exactly as she remembered, sandalwood and musk and whiskey.

It smelled like him. Ian.

Stepping in farther, Petra ran her hand along the curving newel post. The wood was smooth and warm. Behind her, the door opened. Petra turned at the noise. He stood on the threshold, regarding her with steely gray eyes. He wore black pants and a snug black shirt. His hair was disheveled and stubble covered his cheeks and chin.

Her pulse raced. She gripped the newel post tighter. “Hello,” she said.