Chapter 5
Chapter Five
SYLVIE
Eli’s tone didn’t leave a lot of room for argument.
I followed him to the elevator, wondering if he ever pulled the stick out of his butt and chilled out.
On the surface, he looked like an easygoing kind of guy.
His chocolate brown hair was thick, the waves just a little long, like he’d been putting off getting a haircut.
With eyes a perfect match to his hair and broad shoulders stretching his black T-shirt, he looked ready to take on anything that came our way.
Given how exhausted I was, it was nice to know he was looking out for danger.
I was starting to get a little fuzzy-headed from lack of sleep and maybe shock.
I relaxed a little as I got in Eli’s big black SUV, the tinted windows hiding me from anyone outside. As we exited the Sinclair Security underground garage, I saw why Alice would have had to issue me a special fob to get in, as two metal gates were blocking our exit.
“Your office building is like a bunker,” I said as the closest metal gate rose, allowing us into a holding area. The first gate closed behind us, the second rising only after the first was secured.
Eli didn’t respond, turning smoothly onto the street, navigating through Atlanta traffic to move us from Buckhead to Midtown. The traffic wasn’t too bad, meaning that cars were moving, but it wasn’t fast.
I didn’t think I wanted to know the answer, but I had to ask. “Are you okay with this setup?”
“You mean you tagging along while I investigate?” he asked. The side of his mouth curved up the tiniest bit. A smirk or a grin, I couldn’t tell.
I didn’t take the bait of the “tagging along” comment, though it burned just a little.
My work was important to me, but I knew a lot of people thought podcasters were just attention-hungry people yapping into a mic to listen to themselves talk.
I wasn’t a trained detective, but some of what I’d done had helped people. Maybe this would too.
I stared out the window for a minute before I said, “Yeah, that’s what I meant. You seem like the lone wolf kind of guy. Can you handle having a partner?” I wasn’t above poking back at him a little.
He glanced at me long enough that I wanted to remind him to keep his eyes on the road before he turned his attention back to driving and shook his head. “Alice assures me that you won’t get in the way of the investigation.”
“I won’t,” I said, though I was curious how he’d define getting in the way. I wouldn’t impede the investigation, not when I wanted answers, but I wasn’t going to follow along in silence either.
He nodded. “My bigger concern is how hard it’s going to be to keep you alive.”
That landed in my gut like a brick. I swallowed, not sure what to say.
I wanted to argue that I wasn’t in danger.
This wasn’t about me. But I couldn’t forget the heat, the acrid smell of the smoke.
I lifted my fingers to trace the cut across my cheek.
From glass exploding from my van? From where I’d stumbled back and scraped the wall?
I didn’t know. But I could have been inside, and then I wouldn’t be sitting here at all.
And if—when—whoever blew up my van figured out I was still alive, I was almost positive they’d try again.
Which meant we had to solve this, or I’d spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.
I couldn’t get my head around it. I wasn’t anyone important. Not really. Not important enough to kill.
I realized I’d said the last of it aloud when Eli said, “The best I can figure is that you either know something you don’t know that you know, or someone really doesn’t want anyone looking into Emily Shaw’s death.”
“What if it’s both?” I asked.
“That’s option three. It could be both. In which case…” He didn’t finish the sentence, just shook his head again, the gesture not at all reassuring.
“Great,” I said, appreciating the safe house all over again. I was good at a lot of things, but I didn’t have a lot of faith in my ability to keep myself alive if someone who knew how to build car bombs wanted me dead.
We pulled into a parking spot opposite the police station.
I followed Eli, getting out of the car, stumbling a little as I jumped down.
Breakfast and coffee had helped, but I needed a shower and a nap, neither of which were going to happen any time soon.
I hadn’t slept much the night before, dozing a little in the alley where I’d holed up for the night.
Too scared. Too pumped on adrenaline to really sleep, even if the cold and the rain wouldn’t have kept me awake on their own.
All of this was so far outside my normal reality. I didn’t deal with people like Eli. Sinclair Security and its glossy, high-ticket environment weren’t my scene. I wasn’t used to being the victim. I investigated killers. I found justice for victims. I wasn’t the one who got killed.
The noise of the police station was an ocean of sound, crashing over me in discordant waves of voices. I stood beside Eli as he asked for the detective. We were directed down a hall. Strong fingers closed over my arm, just above my elbow, steering me.
“You okay?” Eli asked.
I looked up to see questioning eyes heavy with concern. It was a new look for him. Just as I thought I had him figured out, he changed on me. “I’m fine,” I said.
Those chocolate eyes narrowed, but he didn’t comment. “This won’t take long,” he said.
We stepped into a small room with windows on three sides, the blinds up. The detective, a guy in his mid-forties, not in uniform, sat at the table and gestured for us to take the seats on the other side.
“Sylvie Calloway,” he said. “You’re the owner of a van with VIN number…”
He read out a long series of letters and numbers that didn’t sound familiar to me because who the hell knows their own VIN? And then a license plate, which did, because that I knew. “That’s my van. The plate, at least. I don’t know my VIN number.”
He slid a piece of paper across the table, and I looked down.
Eli snatched it up, flipped it over in his hand, and scowled. “You’re giving her a parking ticket?”
“The van wasn’t supposed to be parked there. She gets a ticket.”
Eli folded the ticket and shoved it in his back pocket, his gaze landing on me with a very clear message: let it go. I gave the slightest nod. I didn’t have the energy to argue, though it seemed enormously petty, considering the vehicle in question was in pieces. But whatever.
“I’d like to see my van,” I said.
The detective ignored me. “Did you witness the explosion?”
I nodded.
“Run me through what happened.”
I did, starting with my trip to the burger place for dinner, and the approximate time I’d come back.
“Explain to me why you didn’t stick around to talk to the fire department. They were there minutes after you say the van exploded.”
“I was scared. Disoriented,” I explained, wishing I could tell enough of the truth to make me sound like less of an idiot. But I was letting Eli take the lead on what we should say to the police at this point. I had no idea what he knew about Emily Shaw, but it was more than I did.
“When you’re scared,” the detective said, “talking to law enforcement is usually a good first move.”
I didn’t respond to that statement, giving him a blank stare. He kept up with the questions.
What was I doing in Atlanta? Why was I parked in Midtown? Why had I gone to Sinclair Security? Why was I with Eli?
I never got to answer the last few, Eli stepping in smoothly to take control of the interview. I found his bossiness annoying when it was directed at me, but if he could get this detective to stop shooting questions my way, I’d have to reevaluate. A little bossiness could be a good thing.
“Sylvie’s a client,” he said. “When the van blew up, she realized she was in danger, and she came to ask for protection.”
“Podcasting pays that well, huh?” The detective raised an eyebrow, staring across the desk at me.
“It can,” I said, taking a little satisfaction in the way his eyes narrowed. Usually, helping law enforcement was my thing, but that parking ticket brought out my inner rebellious teenager.
“You have no idea who blew up your van?” he asked, sounding exasperated.
“I don’t,” I said. “I wish I did. I want whoever did it caught.”
“And you’re sure it wasn’t you?”
I shook my head, impatience bubbling up. “I can show you my insurance policy. Trust me, it’ll cover some, but not everything, the van was worth. I built the interior myself.”
My throat closed as those words hit, and in a flood, I remembered endless hours of sweat and splinters, the smell of wood, sawdust everywhere, sanding until everything was butter-soft and smooth as silk.
It had been beautiful, or as beautiful as I’d been able to make it with my mediocre carpentry skills. It had been home. I swallowed hard.
“I want to see my van,” I said.
“You can’t,” the detective answered. “It’s evidence in an investigation.”
“If there’s anything left, I’d like to?—”
“There’s nothing left,” he said firmly.
I set my jaw, prepared to argue. The detective shook his head. He turned a computer screen, hit a few buttons, and a picture flashed up. I didn’t recognize the burned-out shell as my van. The inside was charred black, the metal frame skeletal.
“There’s nothing to see,” he said. “This is it.”
“You’re checking for explosive residue? Accelerant?” Eli asked.
“Tests are being run,” the detective said with a nod.
“I’m sure we’ll have more questions when the results are back.
” He looked to me, maybe expecting the mention of tests to spark a comment, but I had nothing.
My eyes were glued to the screen, lungs tight, getting tighter as I took in the empty shell of my life.
He was right. There was nothing there but ash.
Not a scrap of fabric. Not a square inch of wood.
Everything was gone. I thought about the day I’d installed the Murphy bed mechanics with my brother.
It had been so heavy and awkward for me alone.
I’d dropped the tools and the parts, bruising my toe.
We finally got it in there, and when we did, the mattress went up and down so smoothly it seemed like magic, transforming the back of the van from a bedroom to an office with the slightest touch.
All the air went out of my lungs. It was gone. Just gone.
“Is there anything else?” I asked, my voice thin and tight.
“No, that’s it for now. Don’t forget to take care of that ticket. We’ll be in touch.”
I didn’t know how, when I hadn’t given the detective my information, but maybe Eli had. My brain was foggy, frozen, my chest hollow with loss as it all hit me at once. Someone had tried to kill me. My home was gone.
That strong hand closed around my arm again. “Let’s go.” Eli’s words were curt, but his touch was gentle as he urged me to my feet and nudged me through the door ahead of him.
We stopped in the hall. I leaned against the concrete wall, watching numbly as he tapped his phone to the screen of a vending machine and pulled out a soda, leading me out through the front doors to the SUV.
“Come on. Get in.” He nudged me to the door he held open.
Obedient, I climbed in, my hands shaking a little as I fastened my seat belt. The second it clicked in, Eli shoved the cold can of soda into my hand.
“Drink this.”
“I never drink soda,” I mumbled, staring down at the can.
“Doesn’t matter. You’re in shock. You need the sugar and the caffeine. Come on, Sylvie. Take a sip.”
The sweet bubbles hit my tongue, sparking life back into my brain.
I took a cautious sip, then gulped. When I was halfway through, the sweetness of it was too much, and I slid it into the cup holder, wrapping my arms around myself, watching blankly as Eli pulled into traffic, navigating somewhere.
He turned into a parking garage and didn’t say anything until he’d found a spot and stopped the car.