Justine
My cell phone rings but I ignore it. I’m knee-deep in Chad’s case, looking for anything that could potentially help him gain an appeal, and distracting myself from the epic shittiness of my life.
I’m doing a crap job at both.
Forcing myself to concentrate, I pick up the police report again.
A driver in a red sedan failed to stop at the signal . . .
My cell phone rings, breaking my concentration again. The screen shows an unknown number.
What? Did you really think Ryker would call? My note said to find me when he wanted to talk, but clearly he doesn’t want anything to do with me. What did I really expect?
I grab the phone and answer it on the fourth ring as a way to shut down the pity party I’m about to throw.
“Hello?”
“Is this Justine Porter?”
“Yes, this is she.”
“This is Officer Fitzwilliam from Campus Safety. We’ve got a development in your case, and we’d like you to come down to the station to talk about it.”
I hold my breath, wondering if they’ve figured out it was my mother who broke in. I don’t know what kind of misplaced loyalty kept me from turning her in, but when I opened my mouth to tell them, the words wouldn’t come.
Gathering myself, I wrap an arm around my middle. “What kind of development?”
“I’d prefer to discuss it in person.”
I glance at the clock at the bottom of my computer monitor, the possibilities racing through my mind. “I’m at work for another hour, but I can come after.” I could use the time to compose myself for whatever they’re going to say.
“Now would be better.”
Dread sweeps through the room, leaving chill bumps on my skin. That doesn’t sound good at all.
“Um . . . okay. Let me talk to my boss.”
“Good. We’ll see you soon, Ms. Porter.”
Staring out the window of the bus as it carries me back toward campus, I flip through all the scenarios I might be walking into at the Campus Safety office.
What if they arrested her? What if they arrested my dad too? Why can’t they both just stay out of my life? And how did I not know about this life insurance policy if I was the beneficiary? I guarantee I’ll never see a penny of it, if it actually exists. My mom will make sure of that.
By the time I climb off the bus at the nearest stop, I’ve managed to gather myself and adopt a blank expression.
A student at the desk out front takes my name and tells me to have a seat. My butt hardly lands on the green vinyl seat before Officer Fitzwilliam rounds the corner.
“Come on back, Ms. Porter.”
As I follow him down the fluorescent-lit hallway, my gaze jumps from his navy polyester uniform shirt to the black rubber soles of his shoes, to the industrial gray of the flooring tiles and back again. He gestures with a thick arm to a room on the right and I enter. For a moment, I hold my breath, wondering if I’m going to find my mother inside in handcuffs.
It’s empty.
“Please have a seat. You want some water? Coffee?”
His demeanor is unreadable, and I decline his offers politely. “No, thank you. Can you tell me what’s going on?”
Fitzwilliam’s jaw moves with every chew of his gum, and he nods, lowering himself into the chair across the table from mine. He drops a file folder on the faux wood surface and crosses his arms. Anxiety creeps through me as I wait for whatever he’s going to say.
I don’t have to wait long.
“We believe we’ve identified the person who broke into your apartment.”
I brace myself for whatever he’s going to say next, but not well enough.
“We recovered several pieces of your mail from the scene of an accident this afternoon.”
“My mail?”
“Yes, we assume they targeted you for identity theft. It’s a common practice to steal the victim’s mail for credit card applications and the like.”
Everything clicks into place. He’s got it all wrong. They stole it hoping they’d find the check from the insurance company. And they found it at the scene of an accident?
“Excuse me, what kind of accident?” Did they get into a wreck?
“Around noon today there was a car-train collision on campus a quarter mile from Gilroy. The driver tried to beat the train and failed. Both the driver and passenger were taken to Red Cedar Medical Center. We were just notified that neither survived . . .”
His words fade as static fills my ears. I lift a hand to my mouth, covering my sharp breath.
Two fatalities. My mail.
I rock back and forth in my seat as cold slithers through my muscles and veins.
“Who were they?”
“We’re working on figuring that out because they had no ID on them, only the mail. When they put your name in the system, it pinged my investigation.”
Shooting out of my chair, I take two steps toward the door before my mouth catches up to speak. “I need to go to the medical center. Right now.”
“Ms. Porter, there’s no reason to—”
“I need to go there. Right. Now.” I repeat. “Please. Can you take me? I don’t have a car.”
The desperation in my tone must be coming through loud and clear because Officer Fitzwilliam stands. And because he’s a cop, he’s also not stupid.
“Do you know who they are, Ms. Porter? It would certainly aid our investigation.”
I’m beyond hiding anything from him. My words come out as a whisper. “My parents.”
His expression tightens. “Come with me.”