“That’s Officer Lloyd to you, George, and if we say she needs to come with us, she needs to come with us,” Willard snaps back.
I have to step in and calm down George. Rounding him, I face him and place my hands on his chest. “It’s okay, George. This is probably about some outstanding tickets I have.” Cutting my eyes to Sniper, I try to tell him to help me out. He gets my message loud and clear. Stepping forward, he takes George by the shoulders and pulls him back a bit.
“It’s all right, mate. We’ll follow her to the station and get this all cleared up.”
“This is fucking bullshit, and you know it, Randy,” George growls as he pushes Sniper off of him and steps back to me. Placing his hands on my shoulders, he bends slightly to meet my gaze. “We’ll be right behind you. My mom can come and open the restaurant, and Greg is working the kitchen today so he can handle it.” My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. Here he is being so sweet and wonderful while going through drug withdrawals, and I’m keeping things from him. It feels amazing to have someone care for me this way, but dread blooms inside of me. He’s going to hate me when he finds out the truth.
“You really don’t have to come, George. I’m sure it’s the tickets. I’d feel bad with you coming down there. Besides, you should be resting.”
“I’m coming with you, Charlotte,” he says, sternly, before leaning in and kissing me softly on the lips, shocking the hell out of me. When I glance to Ike, he’s staring at the ground, and when I look to Sniper, his eyebrows are touching his hairline. “Don’t worry. My dad is a lawyer, and if we need him he can help,” George assures me.
“Let’s go,” Randy orders from behind, and I roll my eyes.
“Can I grab my bag out of Sniper’s truck?”
He nods in answer, and after I get my bag, I climb into the back of the brown cop car and we head toward the Bath County Sheriff’s department. Ike morphs beside me and gives me a reassuring smile. “It’s not about the tickets,” he says. I nod, letting him know I know that.
“So what’s this about? Why are you bringing me in?” I ask Randy and Willard.
“An APB was put out on your vehicle and you last night. You’re wanted for questioning in the Casey Purcell investigation.”
I lean my head back against the seat and exhale loudly. This is going to be a long day.
Once we reach the sheriff’s department, I’m placed in a small room with a table and two chairs on each side. It even has one of those mirrors like in the movies, and I know I’m being watched from the other side. Ike stays with me, even though I can’t speak with him. It’s still nice to know he’s here.
It’s been three hours, and I’ve had four cups of strong, stale coffee when the door opens and a tall, dark-haired man enters wearing a light blue button-down shirt and khakis. He’s holding a folder in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.
“Ms. Acres.” He nods in greeting. “I’m Detective Andrews with the Charlottesville Police Department.” I don’t respond as he pulls out the steel chair across from me and sits. “Bottled water?” he asks, holding it out toward me. I shake my head no.
Leaning his forearms on the table, he asks, “Do you know why you’ve been brought in?”
“The officers that brought me in said there was an APB out on me that had to do with the Casey Purcell investigation.”
Leaning back, he eyes me. “Did you know Casey Purcell?”
“Don’t answer anything yet,” Ike warns.
“Am I under arrest?” I ask.
“No. But you’re a person of interest. Your vehicle was seen at the nearest gas station to where Casey’s body was found.”
“And that makes me a person of interest? You think I had something to do with her murder?”
“Did you?” he asks simply, and I smile with disdain.
“Are you serious?”
“We know, at the very least, you’re the one that reported the whereabouts of her body,” Andrews replies as he flips open the folder. “Does this look familiar?” He slides a piece of paper in a plastic sheet protector forward. I recognize it immediately. It’s the anonymous letter I wrote.
Swallowing hard, I take a deep breath. “It’s a letter,” I state because I have no idea what to say. In an attempt to calm myself, or at least appear calm, I place my hands on the table and lace my fingers together.
He smiles sadly at me as if to say, You’re only prolonging the inevitable. “And what about this?” he asks as he takes the sheet before me back and places a photo in front of me. My heart stops. It’s a picture of the flashlight I dropped in the water that night. I could deny recognizing it if not for the ACRES written across it in bold letters. My father always had a thing about labeling our belongings. I’m an idiot. How could I forget about the flashlight?
“I’m working on a warrant, and I’m sure we can match the paper the anonymous letter was written on to maybe . . . a notebook in your possession.”
Pulling my hands back in to my lap, I shake my head. This is what I get for trying to help. “I think I’d like an attorney.”