Newborn Abandoned at Police Station
He takes the news clipping and the other documents, stuffs them back in the file folder, and places the folder under his arm. Then he closes the doors and climbs down the ladder.
He retraces his steps, closing the office door, climbing back out the window, falling into the grass.
He scrambles back to his hiding spot in the shrubs and looks over his handiwork. If he had all the time in the world, he could replace the iron bars. But he doesn’t. And there’s no replacing a shattered window.
But that’s okay. He didn’t leave any prints. He didn’t even have to break any locks. The file doors he opened are now closed up, like before, with no evidence that Noah looked inside that door versus any of the other hundreds of doors in the facility.
So tomorrow, when the employees of Dunbar Professional Storage arrive at work, they’ll know someone broke one of their windows and got inside, but that’s all they’ll know.
They won’t know who broke in. They won’t know where he looked.
And they’ll have no idea which files he took.
102
THE COURTROOM, FILLED with media and spectators. The discovery of the Yale students, plus the ex-cop who starred prominently in the Noah Walker case—too much for the reporters to stay away. I’ve become tabloid fodder.
Justin, sitting in the front row, trying to give me an upbeat expression when I walk into court. I can’t bear to make eye contact with him.
The lawyers make their arguments. Joshua Brody argues that the evidence against me is weak—the fingerprints on the knife, but that’s all. No motive. No evidence that I even set foot on Long Island during the summer of 2007.
Sebastian Akers rises for the prosecution. Oh, how he must savor the opportunity to prosecute me. He’s never forgiven me for blowing his conviction against Noah Walker.
“Of course she’s a flight risk,” he says. “These women were stabbed, and her prints are on the knife. It’s hard to imagine more direct evidence of guilt, short of capturing the whole thing on video.”
The judge, an old guy I’ve never met named Corrigan, raises his hand.
“Bond will be set at two million dollars,” he says. “In the event bond is made, the defendant will surrender her passport and will submit to electronic monitoring. She will be restricted to home confinement with waivers for work, attorney or medical visits, religious observation, and household errands under the supervision of the sheriff’s office.”
The judge bangs his gavel.
We won, but we lost.
Two million dollars? That means I have to come up with two hundred thousand to get out of here. I don’t think I have ten thousand to my name, and what little I have is going to Joshua Brody as a retainer to defend me.
“I’ll pay it,” Justin calls out to me as the courtroom grows noisy. “It’ll take me a day or two, but I have it.”
“I—can’t ask you to do that,” I say.
He looks at me, almost wounded. “You didn’t ask,” he says.
I don’t know how to respond. I absolutely hate being dependent on someone else for anything. But I don’t have any other options.
Before the deputies escort me from the courtroom, my lawyer asks for a moment.
“We’re lucky to get bond at all,” he says. “Whoever that guy is in the front row, if he’s offering to pay it, you should say yes.”
“But I have to wear an electronic ankle monitor? And home confinement?”
“It’s pretty standard these days,” he says.
I know—but then I can’t do what I need to do. I’ll be trapped.
“And Jenna,” he says. “I called that facility, that off-site storage place I use. Dunbar Professional Storage?”
“Yes?” I perk up.
“I know someone there. I’m a longtime client. Anyway—Holden’s lawyer, Finn Rucker? His firm does use that facility.”
I nod. “Okay, good.”
“But you should know something. Someone broke into their facility last night.”
“What?” I draw back from him.
“Yeah. Broke through a window. Removed the iron bars. Had the run of the place. So just in case you were getting a dumb idea like breaking into that warehouse—which we both know you were thinking—you should know that they’ve doubled down on security. They’re posting guards around the clock now.”
“What—what was taken?” I ask.
“They don’t know. Practically impossible to tell. I think they’re doing an inventory, but it’s so hard to know. There are literally millions of files there.” He looks at me, cocks his head. “Why? You think this is related to your—”
“Of course it’s related,” I whisper harshly. “Whoever broke in there—he did it so I wouldn’t find those files.”
“Jenna.” He squeezes my arm. “You’re watching too many conspiracy shows.”
“He took it so I wouldn’t find it,” I say. Realizing that I probably sound paranoid to him, just another irrational client.