CHAPTER 2
ADDYSON
I can’t take it anymore.
I have to do something.
I can’t take it anymore.
For the last two days, I’ve been hunting down any and all news about Kendra Wagner. The speculation around the case is it was a robbery attempt gone bad. My gut tells me something different.
And why the fuck haven’t I been contacted? Shouldn’t they want to interview me? I just don’t understand.
One thing I didn’t know, but learned from the news reports, is that her husband, ex if she had anything to do with it, is a cop.
I looked into it; the precinct who is investigating her case isn’t where he works.
Which is why I’m sitting outside the police station closest to where Kendra Wagner lived.
I’m too close to the police station, honestly. It makes me want to squirm. Or maybe throw up again. Definitely run in the opposite direction.
But I can’t do any of those things.
What I can’t stop asking myself is what if it were me? If I were Kendra, I would hope the person on the other end of the phone would try their hardest to help.
I couldn’t help her in that moment, but I can help now. Because they haven’t asked to speak with me, and the people above me haven’t mentioned it, even though I could barely get through a shift.
Which is why I took some emergency time off. They can still reach me, and I was very insistent about wanting to know the moment I’m needed.
But it’s been two days and nothing.
Nothing?
It doesn’t feel right.
Something is up.
There hasn’t been any mention of her being on the phone when she was attacked. Would they even mention it? Is it one of those details the police hold back from the press?
Or have I just watched too many crime dramas and really have no idea how the whole thing works?
Yeah. It’s probably that, but if I was the one who was killed, I would want someone moving fast and putting in the effort.
Or maybe they are and I’m just na?ve.
If I can cut through some of the red tape and can help faster, then it’s what I’ll do. I even brought the flash drive. I don’t know if they have the recording or not and I’m willing to risk losing my job over it.
It’s the least I can do.
Kendra didn’t deserve what happened to her. No one deserves that.
And that man’s voice? It’s been haunting me for two days now. I need to do something to get it to stop. I’m hoping this helps.
It’s the need to stop his whispering in my ear which has me climbing out of my car and walking into the police station.
I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I realize when I’m almost at the front desk that I’m probably being suspicious as hell.
My head snaps up and I lock eyes with an older cop at a reception desk.
His gaze sweeps over me, but there’s nothing creepy about it. That’s a win, I suppose. I’m going to take it because this whole adventure feels like a gamble. And a risk.
If Jensen and Tal knew about my plan, they would be pissed. Which is why I didn’t mention it when I got in my car and drove the two hours to Charleston from Magnolia Point. I just can’t shake the feeling that someone should have already called me.
“Hello,” my voice wobbles, but I’m able to force one word out.
“Good evening, miss,” he’s still eyeing me, but his face softens as I clutch my purse to my chest like a shield, “can I help you with something? Are you in trouble?”
He looks over my shoulder and then back at me. I shake my head and he relaxes slightly.
“No,” my voice breaks and I clear my throat before trying again, “sorry. Nothing like that. I just,” I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, “was wondering if I could speak to whoever is working Kendra Wagner’s case?” I hate how it comes out as a question, but it is what it is at this point.
The cop’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline before dropping back down. His words come out slowly, like he’s ensuring he is being clear, “Kendra Wagner’s case?”
“Yes,” I nod my head, “I think I can help. I witnessed the whole thing. I have proof.”
He rears back like I slapped him, his eyes wide with surprise. Then he’s standing up and leaning over the desk, “You say you witnessed it?”
“W-w-well, yes,” I whisper the words, a feeling coiling in my gut to run.
I force my feet to stay in place though and before I can say anything else, or sound surer about why I’m here in the first place, he’s picking up the phone on his desk and dialing a number.
Someone must answer because he rushes out, “I have a woman at the front desk saying she has information on the Wagner case.”
He eyes me as if he’s worried about me bolting. To be fair, he’s not wrong to be concerned.
I’ve lived a fairly sheltered life when it comes to crime. I have never been a witness, let alone the victim of a crime. To say I have no idea how any of this works is an understatement.
I would have been fine having the justice system be something I’m glad about existing, while having no personal knowledge of or experience with it.
Frankly, I could have gone my entire life without walking into a police station with a thumb drive beating like a tell-tale heart in my purse while, inexplicably, being terrified of them somehow thinking I could be a suspect after I tell them what happened from my perspective.
Sure, come in to give a statement and then stay, but with jewelry.
You know, handcuffs. Not in a fun way.
I have to swallow down the nervous giggle that wants to come out of me as the officer grunts a few times and then hangs up. He points to a few chairs against the wall, his voice suspicious, “If you wouldn’t mind having a seat, it will be just a few minutes.”
“Of course,” I breathe out the words, the weight of it all being almost too much to bear.
How I get my feet to carry me over to the chairs, I’ll never know. But the way my body slumps into one, like I have no more fight in me, is not graceful in the least. I practically curl in on myself, trying to find some sort of comfort in this fucked up situation.
Maybe I should have told Tal and Jensen where I was going. They would have tried to talk me out of it, of course. But now that I’m here, I am second guessing myself. I didn’t expect a red carpet to be rolled out for me or anything, but the longer I wait, the more uncomfortable I feel.
Is it possible they don’t need me since they have the recording? What can I even add? Nothing, that’s what.
Fuck.
I shouldn’t have come here at all.
This was about my guilt over not doing more, over not being able to do more. Wishing you could jump through a phone and prevent something horrible from happening is meaningless. A woman is dead and there is no changing it now.
There was no changing it then. It all happened so fast. Cliché but true.
This is what you deserve, bitch.
I jerk slightly and fight the tears welling up in my eyes. I’m tired, so fucking tired. But every time I start to relax, his voice is there whispering through my mind.
Watching you die gives me pleasure.
“Hey, Gibbes,” a man says as he walks in through the door and my entire body goes on high alert. “I just wanted to come by and talk to the detective working my wife’s case.”
There’s a low buzzing sound as everything in me focuses on the voice. I know that voice. I heard that voice.
Just two days ago.
While I was taking a service call at work.
A call from Kendra Wagner.
“I just want to extend my condolences again, Geoff,” the officer at the desk’s voice is about as hangdog as you can get.
But I’m already moving. I don’t look up, my long hair swirling around my face as I turn and take measured steps toward the front door. The killer moves toward the officer at the desk, and I only hope I won’t witness another crime.
Wait. Did he say his wife?
Geoff? As in Geoffrey Wagner. Officer Wagner.
My hands are numb as I reach for the door. Which is when Officer Helpful adds, “The detectives should be on their way down. I called them about a witness who has come forward.”
The temperature of the room drops. I don’t look back, even though everything in me is screaming to see, to witness, to look.
“She’s right,” he pauses and then shouts after me, “hey!”
I hear another man’s shout; I’m sure it is Officer Geoffrey Wagner.
Police officer.
Husband, even if he was going to be an ex.
Murderer.
Cold blooded murderer.
I almost trip over my feet, but I keep moving and I don’t look back. I do hear a door open, but I don’t let the terror gripping me stop me from moving. Not until I’m in my car. Even then, I tug the seatbelt across my body and click it into place as I start my car.
Honestly, thank fuck a car isn’t driving by because I barely look before pulling out from my spot on the street and driving away from the station. When I hazard a glance in the rearview mirror, I see a dark figure standing in the middle of the road.
I swear I can feel his eyes on me.
Geoffrey. Killer.
It was him. The voice. His voice. I know it.
I also know all about what has been reported about his career.
He made a name for himself working Narcotics before going into Internal Affairs a few years ago.
At the time I soaked up the information like I should have a spiral notebook of my own and a few sidekicks while going on a crime solving adventure.
Now, I’m afraid I’m going to throw up. My hands are shaking and I’m barely holding it together. When I see a large parking lot at a big store with a lot of people, I circle it and then find a spot between two big trucks.
I was such an idiot for going there.
It’s not easy swallowing down my fear as I remember how I offered up to the cop at the desk about how I have proof and witnessed the whole thing. And then her murderer walks in like he owns the place. Who even knows how this is being handled or who is truly investigating.
“Get your shit together, Ad,” I admonish myself, “this is not a crime drama.”
Yeah, sure.