The women have all turned away from her now, the older one lying down on the bench and placing her forearm over her eyes. It’s over. Clare knows this woman won’t say another word.
Clare lies on the bench too and stares at the ceiling, the pipes crossing it coated with moisture. When she closes her eyes some kind of sleep must overcome her, because at once Jason is there, sitting on the bench next to her, the other women in the cell gone.
I’m here, he says to her, his voice gentle. I’ve come for you.
No, Clare says.
When she snaps awake Germain is standing over her. Clare jolts to sitting. He offers her his hand to stand, but Clare looks at him with such spite that he retracts it.
“You were saying something,” he says. “You said ‘no.’ ”
“Can I leave now?”
“You posted bail.”
“How? I couldn’t get in touch with Somers.”
“I posted it for you.”
“Whoa,” says the older woman. “Friends in high places.”
Clare laughs bitterly. “Is that even allowed?”
“It’s not your concern,” Germain says. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Oh, I’m not worried,” Clare says. “My only concern is that you’re a huge prick.”
At these words the other women gasp and clap. Germain releases a long sigh and gestures to the cell door. Clare stands and follows him out. The older woman shakes her head at Clare as she passes, a warning. Be careful.
“What about me?” the bride yelps.
“Your fiancé’s on his way,” Germain says.
“Oh God,” she says, burying her face in her hands. “Oh no.”
Clare offers the group a wave, a grateful smile. Then she follows Germain through the cell door he locks behind him.
From the cell, Clare trails Germain down a windowless hall. They are in the basement of the detachment. Is it morning yet? Clare has lost all sense of time. In the elevator, they stand side by side in silence, Clare catching the subtle scent of Germain’s aftershave. She dips her nose to her own armpit and recoils at the stench. The elevator doors open to an atrium six stories high. The light is pink. It is early morning. They walk down a hall open to the atrium below, where Clare can see a skeleton crew of caretakers readying for the day.
A few more turns through clusters of open desks and they arrive at Germain’s office. It is nicely decorated, artsy photographs on the wall. Aside from a framed commendation, Clare sees no personal touches, no family photographs or memorabilia. He sits at the desk and turns on his computer. When Clare takes the seat across from him, he opens a drawer and hands her a bottle of water.
“You’re pretty young for an office this nice,” Clare says.
“Youngest detective in the detachment’s history.”
“Your parents must be proud.” Clare doesn’t mask her sarcasm. “Hey. I’ll be needing my phone back.”
Germain laughs. “Give me a minute.”
He taps at the keyboard until his computer screen comes to life. The events of last night rile her, the trip here in the back of the cruiser, Germain tossing glances back to her at every stoplight, her shoulders smarting from her wrists cuffed behind her back. She thinks of the way he extracted her from the cruiser, her balance off because of the handcuffs. Then a uniformed officer processed her in that too-bright room before leading Clare to the basement cell. Recounting those scenes now fills her with a rage that clenches her jaw.
“How can the arresting officer be the one to post bail?” Clare asks.
“We’ve got a few workarounds in place here. Besides,” Germain says, leaning back in his chair, “I only actually pay it if you break the terms. If, say, you take off.”
They watch each other across the desk.
“Where’s my gun?” Clare asks finally.
“Yeah. You’re not getting that back.”
“You didn’t have to arrest me.”
“You pulled a gun in a bar, Clare. I’ll make sure the charges are dropped. But the only way I was getting you out of there was in cuffs.”
“There’s video of me everywhere. One of the women in the holding cell had seen it.”
“Because you pulled a gun in a crowded bar.”
“You’re not the hero here,” Clare says.
“Jesus Christ. Listen, I’ll work to get the video wiped. We have ways of making that happen.”
“No you don’t.”
Germain releases a long sigh in an effort to calm himself. He turns to his computer again. Clare watches him with a wave of shame. She knows she is being insolent, that she should instead level up to Germain’s coolness, his restraint. She needs to focus again. She pinches the back of her own hand, the sharp pain snapping her alert.
Press reset, she tells herself. Start again.
“I heard from your cop friend,” Germain says. “Hollis Somers. She got your message. She’s on her way.”
“She’s coming here?” Clare says. “Like, in person?”
“Yep. Her flight landed an hour ago. She said she was going to rent a car. She should be on her way to the detachment by now.”
Somers. Here in Lune Bay. Clare is exhausted, and everything is muddled. The wave of relief she feels at Somers’s impending arrival is tempered by the voice in her head: she lied to you. The printer behind Germain spits out a handful of papers and he presents them to Clare for signature. Conditions of Release.
“A formality,” he says.
The pen feels thick and unwieldy between Clare’s fingers. She must pause and consider what name to sign, all her identities mashing together. Clare, she writes, scribbling her false last name into a cartoonish swirl. O’Kearney. She slides the papers back to him. Germain opens the top drawer and passes her phone across the desk. Clare powers it on. The battery is low. Did Germain check her phone after he confiscated it last night? She has not deleted the messages from Malcolm, their exchanges. Surely detectives have means of unlocking a home screen, of reading any new messages before marking them unread again. Across the desk Germain
