Denton’s holding area was a little-used group of cells in the basement of the police department with an emergency exit leading to the back parking lot. It was mostly reserved for drunk college students and drunks who needed to sleep it off. For prisoners who were being charged, Denton PD relied on the county’s central booking office which was only a few miles away. It was much more secure, manned twenty-four hours, and the sheriff supplied transportation of prisoners to and from court. It saved Denton a lot of time and expense to send people awaiting arraignment to central booking rather than keep them in holding.

That June Spencer was still in their holding was extraordinary. Noah’s claim that they couldn’t find a bed for her in any nearby psychiatric units was bullshit; there had to be one somewhere. What made matters worse was there was no one to fight for June’s rights; her uncle was clinging to life, her mother was in hiding. She couldn’t even speak for herself.

Obviously, they were trying to delay her transfer. Another day or two and she’d likely have some sort of accident—maybe in transit—or perhaps she would find something to kill herself with. At least that’s what they would claim. Then there would be no chance of June recovering enough to testify against any of them.

Josie had to get June out of there and to safety. She parked a block away from the police department in a pick-up truck she’d borrowed from Carrieann. She’d also lent her a Marlin ranch rifle. It was probably twenty years old and its wooden stock was nicked and scratched, but Carrieann had assured her that it would shoot someone just the same. Now it was hidden beneath Josie’s jacket as she lurked in the shadows near the dumpsters in the back parking lot. Quickly and surreptitiously, she checked the display on her cell phone. “Any minute now,” she whispered under her breath. It had gotten cold, almost to the point where she could see her breath. She silently hopped from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm as she waited.

Finally, she heard the doors around the side of the building bang open, shouts and footsteps and, soon, cars roaring to life. She listened as one by one they tore out of the parking lot. As planned, Carrieann had called in the false Isabelle Coleman sighting on the other side of the city. Everyone on shift would be sent out looking for her, leaving one person upstairs in the main lobby to greet any visitors and one person in holding to watch June Spencer. She didn’t know if it would be Noah, but it didn’t matter. She was leaving with June Spencer no matter what she had to do.

Josie knew one patrol officer who worked nights and always parked in the back lot, and she waited for him to exit through holding. As he strode toward his car, she slipped inside the door just before it slammed shut. She knew she’d be captured on CCTV, but that didn’t concern her. She was already a dead woman walking. All she needed to do was get June, get out, and get her to safety.

She paused in the small hallway that led from the door into the holding area. Her heart pounded out a steady rhythm. She opened her jacket and raised the rifle, holding it in both hands, the stock flush against her right shoulder. She paused for a moment to steady her breath and her trembling hands. She was about to break the law. She was about to seal her fate, throw away everything she held dear in life. But there was no other way; it was kill or be killed.

Still, committing a crime in her own station house was not something she ever thought she would do. She took one last shuddering breath and made her way down the hall. On one side was a row of cells: two small, two large. On the other side was a row of unused desks and an empty bench. Directly across from where she stood sat Noah Fraley, his feet up on a large desk, so all she could see was the mud-crusted tread of his boots. He’d been nodding off but didn’t startle when he saw her, which was what she’d expected. She moved toward him, catlike, raising the rifle and sighting in on his center mass. Slowly, he unlaced his fingers from behind his head and brought his hands down, palms out toward her, a gesture of surrender. An uncertain smile played on his lips, like he couldn’t quite be sure if what he was seeing was real or not.

“Detective Quinn?” he said in a worried, questioning tone.

She glanced quickly to her left and saw that all the cells were empty, save one. June was curled in a fetal position beneath the cot in one of the single cells. Like a dog. Someone had put a pair of sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt on her.

Noah stood as Josie drew closer. “Josie,” he said, trying a different tack.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” she instructed.

“What are you doing?”

She motioned toward June’s cell with her chin, keeping the gun steady on him. “I’m taking her with me.”

He started to laugh, but then thought better of it. His face flamed red. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Are you involved?” she asked. “Are you with them?”

He looked genuinely puzzled, but she held fast to her resolve not to trust anyone, not even Noah. “What are you talking about?” he said.

“Never mind. Just get your keys. Let her out.”

“You can’t… why are you… what the hell is going on here?”

“I know what’s going on. I know about Ginger Blackwell. I know about June. I know about Isabelle Coleman.”

By degrees, his face became more and more pinched. “You know what? Josie, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know about Ramona,” she hissed.

No flicker of recognition.

She said, “It doesn’t matter anyway. Maybe you really don’t know what’s happening in this town or maybe you’re an excellent liar just like my husband. Either way, I’m taking June. Open the cell.”

He took a few cautious steps around the desk toward her. From inside the cell, June stirred, creature-like, her beady eyes locking onto Josie. She reminded Josie of the animals at the zoo—a wild predator trapped in a cage. She hoped she wasn’t endangering herself. She didn’t want to end up like Sherri Gosnell.

“You don’t have to do this,” Noah said. “Look, why don’t you take a moment? Go home. Sleep on this. I can meet you tomorrow. We’ll talk about whatever is going on. Let me help you.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she shouted.

June moved like a snake, slithering out from beneath the cot and over toward the cell bars. Noah stood between the desk and the cell. The keys to the cells were there on the desk, to his left. His gun hung on his right hip.

“Just let me help you… sort things out. We can go somewhere else and talk about things.”

He thought she was crazy. He was trying to de-escalate the situation. He was treating her like a woman about to jump off a bridge.

“I’m not fucking crazy, Noah. You want to know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy. Isabelle Coleman went missing twelve days ago. There are men on this police force who know where she is, or at least where she was, and yet she’s still missing. What’s crazy is that I found one of her acrylic nails by her mailbox that day you let me into the crime scene—a crime scene in the middle of the damn woods, a good quarter mile from that mailbox. What’s crazy is that June Spencer is wearing Isabelle Coleman’s tongue piercing, but June was missing for a year, which means that June was being held with Coleman at some point. Yet she was found in the home of Donald Drummond who’s not here to tell us what the fuck happened because the chief shot him dead.”

Her voice escalated. “What’s crazy is that six years ago a woman named Ginger Blackwell was lured onto the side of the road and drugged by a woman calling herself Ramona and the police never even looked for her. What’s crazy is that in the face of indisputable physical evidence they labeled it a hoax. What’s crazy is that as soon as I found out about Ginger’s case, my fiancé was shot. What’s crazy is that his ex-girlfriend, who I was with yesterday, is being framed for the crime. What’s fucking crazy is that there is some fucked-up shit going on in this town, and I am the only person who gives a shit. Now let her out of that cell!”

With each new nugget of information, Noah’s face grew one shade paler, and his right arm dropped a fraction of an inch lower, toward his gun. Noah had never pulled his weapon in the line of duty, and he would be slow on the draw. His fingers brushed the gun’s handle, but he hadn’t even unfastened his holster. He didn’t stand a chance.

Josie placed a shot into his right shoulder, the sound of the rifle deafening in the tiny room. Guilt assailed her, but she pushed it aside. By the time he hit the floor, she was already standing over him, unfastening his holster and disarming him, tucking his weapon into the back of her waistband. He lay on the ground, holding his shoulder, turning his head, straining to get a look at the blood blooming on his blue shirt. “You… you shot me,” he gasped.

“It won’t kill you,” she said. “It’s a .22 and I’m a good shot.”

He didn’t respond, his eyes gaping at the wound in disbelief. She had a minute, tops, before the desk sergeant made it downstairs. If Noah wasn’t involved, then at least they wouldn’t think he had helped her. If he was involved, then she was glad she had shot him. Snatching up the keys, she stepped over him and unlocked June’s cell. The girl shuffled out, her eyes raking warily over Noah’s prone frame. Using one arm to keep her gun up and at the ready, Josie led June out by the upper arm. She didn’t put up a fight.

Before they left, Josie took one last look at Noah lying on the floor, blood oozing from the wound in his shoulder. Biting back an apology she pushed June out into the dark, cold night.