Chapter 38
38
CAS
T he second the ambulance doors were shut, I pounded my fist against the back, then turned and vomited up what little I’d had to eat, splattering it over the gravel. I stared at the evidence of my inner turmoil. A vision of Alta scared, being hurt—alone—rolled my stomach, shooting more of its contents up my throat and onto the driveway. Hands gripping my knees, I let everything out, all while the dozen or so local police officers and crime scene techs pretended not to notice.
“Here.” A bottle of water appeared in my periphery. “Need a minute?”
“No,” I grunted as I shoved off my legs to stand at full height. I snagged the bottle of water from the detective’s outstretched hand and twisted the cap off with more force than necessary.
“Weak stomach?”
I scoffed, then swished the first couple of sips around before spitting it across the drive. “For the last fifteen fucking minutes, I gave mouth-to-mouth to a mostly dead guy, whom I cannot fucking stand because he’s in love with my girl. Oh, and my girl is in the hands of some fucking psychopath,” I bellowed. “So no, not a weak fucking stomach. I’m a fucking wreck.”
The other men loitering around stopped their work and turned.
The detective just shook his head. “Right. Sorry. Let's get inside.”
Several sets of cautious eyes followed my path up the porch steps and into the living room; no doubt they all knew I was at my breaking point.
Inside, I polished off what was left in the bottle and scanned the room. My attention fell to the pillow on the floor by the couch. The same pillow Alta used that morning to avoid me. My stomach churned as fear and anger fought their internal battle with in me. I shook my head to stop the dark path my thoughts were leading me down and looked to the kitchen. That wasn’t much better. All I could see was the spot where I’d knelt minutes ago, keeping John alive.
“You bring coffee home?”
“Huh?” I responded but didn’t look over.
“Coffee.” I followed the path of his pointed finger to the three to-go coffee cups on the table. “Someone brought it from the shop in town. Was that you?”
“No,” I mused and stepped closer. His hand swatted mine when I tried to grab one. “Maybe Sadie did, the girl who was drugged.”
“So she brought a coffee for you, your girlfriend, and the other guy?”
“Alta doesn’t drink coffee. The other cup would’ve been for her.”
“But that still leaves one more. That means she expected you to be here, but you weren’t.”
Brows furrowed, I tried to follow his theory but failed. “Why does that matter?”
The detective rolled his eyes to the ceiling like I was the stupidest motherfucker he’d ever spoken to. If I weren’t so desperate to hear his theory, I would’ve punched him.
“It matters because that guy they took away didn’t look like he put up a fight, which doesn’t make sense if someone marched in here and abducted Alta Johnson. That means he was already drugged when the person broke in, and I’m guessing”—he pointed a chewed-on pen at the cups—“that’s how they got the drug in their system.”
“But Alta wouldn’t drink the coffee,” I mused.
The detective nodded like he was deep in thought, trying to work through the roadblock I’d erected, halting his theory. With an inspecting eye, he walked around the table, looking for who knew what. In the kitchen, the detective swung open the cabinet under the sink and squatted. Intrigued, I peeked over the counter to find him rummaging through the trash can.
When he stood, his features were grave as he held an empty orange juice bottle in his hand. “Your girl like orange juice?”