“I was angry. I didn’t mean anything by it. It was just...”
“Hyperbole,” Martinez offered.
“Do I need a lawyer?”
“You tell me. Do you?” He closed the file. “I want to believe that you had nothing to do with the attack on Joe, really I do. But you threatened his life twice today. You were covered in blood when the police arrived, your fingerprints are on the alarm. Yet you claim to have no memories of anything that transpired for over forty-five minutes. What am I supposed to think?”
“I don’t know,” she said. Her voice was small, even in the tiny room. “I have migraines and sometimes I black out, but can still be on my feet, talking and active. I had an episode this morning.”
Lying, or concealing her ailment, would only make things worse, she knew. Why was it that she wanted to keep these most important details from Martinez? Yet Petra wasn’t stupid. With her admission she’d certainly become a person of interest—maybe even a suspect.
She dug her fingernails into her palm and continued. “I lost consciousness. That’s why I can’t remember.”
Martinez bounced his pen on the file. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. “Then I guess I was wrong.”
She looked him in the eye. “About what?”
“You do need a lawyer. I’m naming you as a person of interest in the attack on Joe Owens.”
* * *
For Petra, the next seven hours passed in a haze. She cleared out her savings to pay the retainer for a lawyer who had a reputation for being both honest and brilliant. He’d gotten the police to release her car and her purse, and Petra waited alone by the precinct parking lot. A police officer pulled up next to the curb and said nothing as Petra slid into her seat and drove away.
She felt as if she should call someone and check in. But who? Then again, she didn’t have a phone.
With nothing beyond her thoughts for company, she couldn’t help but recall the last time she had blacked out. She’d been a sophomore in college and her mother had called to let Petra know that her father’s CAT scan looked suspicious. Then Petra found out that her roommate had stolen her boyfriend, when she saw them making out on campus. The headache had begun much like it had today. More than a decade ago, she’d lost almost an hour. When she came to, she’d had a pair of scissors in her hand and had cut her own hair.
What bothered Petra then, as it did now, was the fact that she had the potential to destroy. It was her most closely guarded secret and still she couldn’t help but wonder, what did that say about Petra as a person?
She’d never answered the question before. Could she now?
Turning down her street, she saw her condominium complex come into view. The front gate was ablaze with lights from a dozen different TV vans, all the local stations and two cable news networks. Her heart stilled as she stared, wide-eyed. Petra expected that the media would learn of her involvement, but she’d hoped that it would take time, as in days—not hours.
Now what? She eased her foot off the gas and the car slowed.
Petra had no desire to drive through the gauntlet of reporters and questions, to have her privacy invaded by the press. But what else was she supposed to do? Drive around all night?
She heard a sharp knock on her car window. With a start, she turned to the noise. A man in a Colorado Mustangs ball cap stood outside the car. He slapped the glass.
“You,” he said, pointing a shaking finger. “I saw you on TV. You deserve to rot in jail until you die for what you did.”
In the distance, she saw a group of reporters turn in her direction. Microphones in hand and cameramen on their heels, they ran toward her car. She didn’t like her chances in a tussle with the media. Or the crackpot in the ball cap, for that matter.
Jerking the gearshift into Reverse, she dropped her foot on the accelerator. The tires screamed. A cloud of smoke surrounded her. The taste of burning asphalt clung to her lips. She backed up the street, and at the intersection, turned the steering wheel and sped away.
Her heart raced and her pulse thrummed at the nape of her neck. For a time she drove without thought, but all the while Petra knew where she was going. She turned onto the tree-lined street, and her eye was drawn to the Tudor-style home midway up the block. She pulled in to the circular drive and stopped in front of the wooden door. Dark windows stared out like blank eyes. She turned off the ignition and stepped into the rapidly cooling evening air. Petra wrapped her arms over her chest as her flip-flops slapped across the pavement.
She rang the bell. Chimes echoed. The lights remained dark, the house silent.
No one was home, but how long until someone would return? Minutes? Hours? Days?
Coming here was a bad decision, made in a moment of weakness. She considered leaving—renting a hotel room and waiting for the media to get tired of camping out at her condo complex. Then again, she needed more than a place to hide. She needed help and protection. She needed to be here.
Petra made a deal with herself. The door was controlled by an electronic lock. If the combination hadn’t been changed, Petra would take it as a sign, and stay. If not, she’d leave.
She pressed the first number. The second. The third. Then she entered the final number. She gripped the handle and pulled down. The door swung open.
She stepped inside and quickly turned on the light. A grandfather clock stood in the corner and began to ring out the quarter hour. She closed the door and inhaled deeply. The scent was exactly as she remembered, sandalwood and musk and whiskey.
It smelled like him. Ian.
Stepping in farther, Petra ran her hand along the curving newel post. The wood was smooth and warm. Behind her, the door opened. Petra turned at the noise. He stood on the threshold, regarding her with steely gray eyes. He wore black pants and a snug black shirt. His hair was disheveled and stubble covered his cheeks and chin.
Her pulse raced. She gripped the newel post tighter. “Hello,” she said.
Ian gazed at her for a moment before kicking the door closed with his heel. “I definitely didn’t expect to find you here,” he said.
He was neither pleased nor angered. She’d hoped for one or the other, not cool neutrality—especially since energy coursed under her skin, leaving her feeling raw and exposed “I’ve been accused of attempted murder,” she said. “And I need you to help me find out what happened. I want to hire Rocky Mountain Justice.”
Petra’s words surrounded Ian like smoke.
The last time they spoke, his job had been the topic. She’d cried. He’d yelled. The accusations had been plentiful on both sides. And now she wanted to hire him? In a day that was anything but smooth, this was the last wrinkle he’d expected.
A bolt of anger shot through Ian. She was the one who’d left—and now she was back, asking for help? Damn her!
He checked his emotions and cleared his throat. “You can’t hire me,” he said. His stomach clenched into a hard ball of resolve. “I closed Rocky Mountain Justice today.”
Petra recoiled as if she’d been slapped. “What do you mean? I thought you were working with the FBI. I heard something on the news this morning that made me think of you...”
“There was a raid,” he said, “and we were working together, but we got sacked.” Before she could ask why, he added, “I got caught trying to steal evidence.”
“I know you, Ian. You’re impulsive, but not careless. What’s going on?”
He shook his head.