My shoulders stiffened in response. “Yes,” I said, arms still at my sides, exposed and waiting, feeling as though I were on display.
He extended his hand. “Detective Kyle Donovan,” he said. He was the younger of the two but more polished, more mature in stature somehow. Made me think he was the one in charge, regardless of seniority. Maybe it was just that he was fit and held eye contact, and I was biased. So I have a type.
I reached out a hand to shake his, then leaned across the table, repeating the motion with the older man. “Detective Clark Egan,” he said. He had graying sideburns, a softer build, duller eyes. He tilted his head to the side, then shared a look with Detective Donovan.
“Allison Conway.” Role still undetermined, business suit, blond hair falling in waves to her shoulders.
“Thanks for agreeing to see us,” Donovan said, as if I had the choice. He gestured toward the chair across from him.
“Of course,” I said, taking a seat and trying to get a read on the situation. “What’s this about?”
“We have just a few questions for you. Davis Cobb. You know him?”
“Sure,” I said, crossing my legs, trying to appear more at ease.
“How long have you known him?” he continued.
“I met him in July, down at the county office, when I registered with the district.” Fingerprints, drug test, background check. Teachers and cops, the last line of unsullied professions. They check criminal records but not the civil suits. Almosts don’t count. Gut feelings count even less. There were so many cracks you could slip through. So much within that could not be revealed by a history of recorded offenses and intoxicants.
Davis Cobb had managed.
“You became friends?” Detective Donovan asked.
“Not really.” I tried not to fidget, with moderate success.
“Has he ever contacted you directly? Called you up?”
I cleared my throat. And there it was. The evidence they had, the reason they pulled me from class. Careful, Leah.
“Yes.”
Detective Donovan looked up, my answer a spark. “Was it welcome? Had you given him your number?”
“The school has a directory. We all have access to the information.” That and our addresses, I had learned.
“When was the last time he called you?” Detective Egan cut in, getting right to the point.
I assumed if they were asking, they already knew and were just waiting on me to confirm, prove myself trustworthy. “Last night,” I said.
Detective Donovan hadn’t taken his eyes off me, his pen hovering in the air, listening but not making any notes. “What did you speak about?” he asked.
“I didn’t,” I said. I pressed my lips together. “Voicemail.”
“What did he say?”
“I deleted it.” This had been Emmy’s idea. Frowning at the phone in my hand a few weeks ago, asking if it was that Cobb asshole again. After I’d nodded, she’d said, You know, you don’t have to listen to it. You can just delete them. It had felt like such a foreign idea at first, this casual disregard of information, but there was something inexplicably compelling about it, too—to pretend it never existed in the first place.
Detective Egan opened his mouth, but at this point, the woman—Allison Conway, role undetermined—cut him off. “Is this something that happens often?” she asked. From the cell phone records, they knew that it was.
“Yes,” I said. I folded my hands on the table. Changed my mind. Held them underneath.
Detective Donovan leaned forward, hands folded, voice dropping. “Why does Davis Cobb call you night after night, Ms. Stevens?”
“I have no idea, I don’t pick up.” Yes, it was a good idea to keep my hands under the table. I felt my knuckles blanching white in a fist.
“Why didn’t you pick up?” Donovan asked.
“Because he called me drunk night after night. Would you pick up?” It was a habit Cobb seemed to have grown fond of. Heavy breathing, the sounds of the night, of the breeze—back when I still used to listen to the messages, trying to decipher the details, as if knowledge alone were a way to fight back. It always left me vaguely unsettled instead. Like he wanted me to think he was on his way. That he was watching.
Mitch Sheldon was just outside the door, and I knew he was probably listening.
“What was the nature of your relationship?” Egan cut in again.
“He drunk-dialed me late at night, Detective, is the gist of our relationship.”
“Did he ever threaten you?” he asked.
“No.” Are you home alone, Leah? Do you ever wonder who else sees you? His voice so quiet I had to press the phone to my ear just to hear it, wondering if he was coming closer as well, on the other side of the wall.
“Did his wife know?” he asked, implying something more.
I paused. “No, I think it’s safe to assume his wife didn’t know.”
* * *
LONG BEFORE THE CALLS, there had been the Saturday night, a car engine outside, smoother and quieter than Jim’s. Emmy sleeping, me reading a book in the living room. The footsteps on the front porch, and Davis Cobb’s image manifesting out of thin air, like a ghost. He knocked on the glass door, looking directly at me.
“Leah,” he’d said when I slid the door open a crack, like I had invited him. His breath was laced with liquor, and he leaned too close, the scent coming in with a gust of night air. I had to put up my hand to prevent him from sliding the door open all the way.
“Hey,” he’d said, “I thought we were friends.” Only that hadn’t been what he was implying at all.
“It’s late. You have the wrong idea,” I’d said, and there was this moment while I held my breath, waiting for the moment to flip one way or the other.
“You think you’re too good for us, Leah?”
I’d shaken my head. I didn’t. “You need to leave.”
A creak in the floor had sounded from somewhere behind me, deep in the shadows of the hall, and Davis finally backed away, into the night. I watched the darkness until I heard the rumble of his engine fading in the distance.
I’d turned around, and Emmy peered out from the shadow of her room, visible only now that he was gone. “Everything okay?” she’d asked.
“Just some guy from work. Davis Cobb. He’s leaving now.”
“He shouldn’t be driving,” she’d said.
“No,” I’d said, “he shouldn’t.”
* * *
IT WAS WARM IN the conference room. Egan shifted in his seat, whispered something to Conway, but Donovan was watching me closely.
“He hurt that woman? The one they’re all talking about—Bethany Jarvitz?” I asked, looking directly at Donovan.
“Would this surprise you?” he asked, and now I had everyone’s attention again.
I paused. There was a time in my life, from before I met Emmy, when I would’ve said yes. “No.”
There was something in his look that was close to compassion, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it. “Any reason you say this?” he asked.