This cop—or chief of police, as his vehicle indicated—was slow. Although Heather knew she should stay in the car, this wasn’t Phoenix, it was Sarasota Falls, so she pushed open the door. In a flash, the cop was out of his vehicle and striding toward her. He made it to her car in seconds, kicked her door shut before she could step out and looked through her open window.
Okay, time to get worried.
She swallowed, trying to push back the fear threatening to surface. “What’s the problem, Officer?” She twisted, trying to get a good look at the man who stood next to her car.
“Put both hands on the steering wheel.”
“What?”
“Both hands on the steering wheel. Now.”
“But—but, why? What’s going on?”
“Don’t. Make. Me. Repeat. Myself.”
She put her hands on the steering wheel while the fear came, roiled in her stomach. This cop had an agenda and for some reason she was it.
Not where she wanted to be. Somehow, she had to make him realize he’d made a mistake, a serious mistake. “Look,” she sputtered, “I have to tell you, you’re really scaring me. I have my driver’s license and proof of insurance. Write me the ticket if you have to, but stop acting like this.”
In the distance came a siren, its sound gradually getting louder. Then came another and still another. In the blink of an eye, three squad cars—their wheels screeching—surrounded her vehicle.
Clearly, they thought she was public enemy number one instead of a random speeder. Two other cars slowly drove by, one a family and the other a lone female. From the expressions on their faces, they offered no pity, only curiosity and accusation.
“Open your door slowly and keep your hands where I can see them at all times.” The cop’s voice didn’t sound any friendlier now that he had backup.
“I will open the door. I don’t have a weapon.” Her teeth started to chatter, even though it wasn’t cold. Her mind, ever logical, grasped at any possible reason for the cop’s behavior.
She heard more doors opening, the sound of voices, all coming her way, and her fear escalated.
Apparently, she wasn’t moving fast enough. He jerked open the door for her, and she threw her purse out, not caring where it landed. “I can do it!”
But he had control of the door and was partially in the way. Instead of a graceful exit, she spilled awkwardly from the car—maybe what he intended. Her knees hit the road first. Her jeans offered little protection. Her palms hit hot, rough pavement, and bits of rocks pressed against tender skin. Her purse was right in front of her. She started to reach for it.
Simultaneously, she heard the chief of police drawing his gun and his steely warning. “Keep your hands where I can see them at all times.”
Her purse stayed where it was, and the cop pushed her closer to the hot pavement while yanking her hands behind her back and handcuffing her. Another cop—this one younger, a kid really, but looking just as stoic—went for her purse, while another read her rights to her. Oddly, all she wanted to do was talk, tell them the truth—that she’d done nothing. Instead, her throat closed and she swallowed.
“Do you understand?” the cop snapped.
She swallowed again and managed to answer. “I understand my rights, yes, but I don’t understand why you’re doing this to me.”
“Tom, she wasn’t going for a gun,” the cop who’d picked up her purse said. He looked no-nonsense and had a military haircut. “At least there’s not one among her things, and her license says Heather Marie Graves.”
“Considering who she hangs around with, getting a fake ID is as easy as ordering a pizza,” the chief replied.
She lost her breath... Her parents had fake ID. Is that who he’d meant? She’d thought maybe they had been in witness protection, but surely her parents’ identification would have been destroyed. They wouldn’t have been so careless as to keep it. No way could her parents have been involved in something criminal, not a chance.
“Tom, her vehicle’s clean,” said an officer.
Clean? Of course it was clean. She’d washed it just yesterday. Tom? His name was Tom? Okay, maybe it fit him. Tom was the kind of name that belonged to a guy grilling steaks in the backyard, keeping an eye on the neighborhood, right? A good cop? Make that chief of police. Well, this one might look like a serve-and-protect type, but he acted a little too much like a fight-to-the-death title contender.
Tom straightened, a line of sweat dotting his forehead.
“Sir, I haven’t done anything wrong,” Heather protested, no longer looking at him but now focusing on the ground at her feet because she was afraid to look up, especially at the gun being aimed at her. “I’m a dental assistant. I just moved to Sarasota Falls, and I’m trying to find work. And, of course, I don’t have a gun.”
In one of the police cars, the radio crackled. An officer she couldn’t see yelled, “The plates are registered to Heather Graves, age twenty-seven, of Phoenix, Arizona.”
“I didn’t want to get a New Mexico license until I was sure I could find a job here,” Heather offered.
“Why did you come back here?” Tom snapped.
“I’ve never been here before, not that I remember.” Maybe she’d been born here, maybe some woman she’d passed in town today had carried Heather in her womb, but other than that, until her parents’ death, Sarasota Falls hadn’t existed.
“Right.” None too gently he hauled her to her feet and turned her to face her car. With her hands cuffed behind her, she couldn’t rub at her sore knees or even brush away the dust and dirt of the roadway clinging to her clothes. A female officer stepped forward and quickly patted her down.
“Nothing,” the female told the others.
“I told you. I’m a dental assistant. I don’t need a gun. What’s go—”
They weren’t listening to her. Instead, the woman cop frowned at Tom. “You’re going to have to fill out a report for drawing your weapon, Chief Riley.”
“You saw everything, right?”
Heather noted the slight trembling of the chief’s hand.
The one still holding the gun.
“Her purse. When she went for it, I thought...” He looked at Heather and his expression shut down, unreadable. Silently, he stepped back.
“You’ll be all right taking her in?” the cop who’d read her rights asked.
The chief nodded.
“Let’s roll,” the female officer said.
Her mind screamed protests that her mouth didn’t utter. She was so numb that she blindly allowed the chief to escort her into the back seat of the SUV, no questions asked.
She witnessed the female officer attach an orange sticker to the back window of her car.
She could consider it impounded.
All this was for real.
Chief Riley climbed behind the steering wheel and quickly radioed in a code she didn’t know and then reported both the current time and the mileage on his vehicle.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t believe this was happening.
“Ex-excuse me,” she said softly. Chief Riley glanced in his rearview mirror.
Anger came off of him in waves. Wait. Innocent until proven guilty, right? The cops were the good guys, right?
What if