Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Most detectives would wait until morning, especially on a case that many would consider less emergent, to go speak with a possible witness. I’m not most detectives.
That eerie sense of familiarity threatens to sink in as I grab my cell phone off my desk and head out of the police station. The place is deserted, all the other detectives being home with their families.
I stop just as my hand reaches out to open the car door. Tabatha mentioned Drake being on a camping trip. I know after a brief conversation earlier this week that Colton is also on a camping trip. He mentioned it while we were both waiting for the lackluster coffee in the breakroom to finish brewing.
I don’t have many opinions about Cerberus. I know most either love them for the help they provide to the community or they hate them because they have preconceived notions about men and women who ride motorcycles. I’ve lived my life trying my best to not form opinions about people on any level. Following evidence, making informed judgments, has been something I’ve worked very hard on.
I know Colton is connected to the group through his wife, but I’m not exactly sure how. Diving into the lives of those I work with only opens the door for them to ask questions about mine. Despite many people knowing a lot about my history already, I prefer not to openly discuss it with anyone. I know I’m judged by many. I feel their eyes on my back when I walk past, especially those that have been working at the department for a long time. My family’s history is hard to forget, despite the tragedy striking us over fifteen years ago.
The drive to Rochelle’s house is quiet, and I only pass a few cars on the way there. I remember reading years ago some stupid, and more than likely, completely unfounded statement that read the average person walks past thirty-six murderers in their lifetime. I’ve eyed nearly every person, wondering if they’re one of the thirty-six, ever since.
Rochelle’s house is small, but the yard is well maintained. I spend a minute sitting in my car, getting a feel for the neighborhood, before climbing out. The shield clipped to my belt and holstered gun on my right side give me courage in the darkness, but I know better than to give in fully to that false sense of security. I refuse to think I’m safe just because I’m a cop. If anything, in this day and age, it puts a bullseye on my back in some circles.
I pause on the porch, noticing no lights on in the house, knowing I’m going to wake this woman up after she worked a long shift dealing with people drinking. I know it sort of makes me an asshole, but Elizabeth Burr deserves more than what she got. Someone missing out on a little sleep doesn’t concern me.
I press the doorbell, waiting another minute despite not hearing any sort of chime come from inside the house before knocking.
My lip twitches, thinking about the last person I woke up and them complaining that I needed to stop pounding on the door like the fucking cops. But honestly, there’s only one way to knock that’s loud enough for someone who’s sleeping to hear.
After no response, I look over my shoulder, reconfirming the vehicle in the driveway before knocking once again.
A light flips on, and that lip twitch turns into a smile when a woman on the other side of the door demands to know who it is rather than just swinging the door open wide in the early morning hours of darkness.
“Lennox Maison with the Farmington Police Department,” I respond. “I have a few questions about a woman last seen at Jake’s a little over a week ago.”
Rochelle takes another minute before the deadbolt clicks, indicating her unlocking it.
The door opens a crack, her eyes squinted as if she’s trying to see in the darkness.
“Does the porch light work?” I ask, squinting when she flips it on.
I recognize her, but I’m not sure that I’d be able to tell you where from if I weren’t already aware that she’s one of the bartenders at Jake’s.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” I begin before holding up the driver’s license picture of Elizabeth. “Do you recognize this woman?”
Unlike many I’d consider suspects, Rochelle actually looks at the picture, reaching her hand out to take it from me.
“I don’t know her name,” she says after a minute.
“But you recognize her?”
“What happened to her? You said missing?”
“Do you recognize her?”
“She looks like the girl Ugly was with.”
“Ugly?”
Her eyes sweep up from the picture to lock on mine.
“He’s Cerberus, and I can tell you if something bad happened, he’s not involved.”
I give her a weak smile, but the woman must be very intuitive, because she doesn’t seem impressed with my nonverbal reassurance.