I had to stop him. “But shooting him makes me the bad guy.”
Edmond scoffed. “That’s absurd.”
Poirot nodded emphatically. “It’s the truth.”
Sighing, I answered, “I don’t know what it is, but turning myself in was something I had to do.”
Both Poirot and Edmond appeared to concede to this, and they disappeared as Officer Cortez walked into the room with a handful of paperwork. I was sure I was about to be handcuffed, so I placed my hands out in front of me to make it easier on him.
Officer Cortez sat across from me, took an envelope off the top of his paperwork, and slid it over. “Open it,” he advised.
“Aren’t you going to cuff me?” I wasn’t sure what was happening.
Was that a smile? Did he just smile at me? A murderer?
I opened the envelope, not sure what to expect, but a check written out to me for a hundred dollars was not on my radar. “What is this?”
“It’s a reward for the capture of Alex Peters,” he said frankly.
“What?” What?
“A neighbor saw the whole thing. You being attacked, Alex hitting his head and passing out on top of you.” Officer Cortez fumbled through the paperwork until he found what he was looking for and slid it over.
A witness statement. Stating exactly what Officer Cortez had told me.
I didn’t understand.
“But I shot him,” was all that came out.
The officer shook his head, obviously not sure how to respond. “No bullet has been fired from your gun. It’s brand new, no residue, and the chamber is empty. I don’t think bullets have ever been loaded into it. You didn’t shoot anyone.”
“But I heard it.” What was happening?
Officer Cortez shrugged as if that very shrug solved everything. “I’m not sure what you heard, but it wasn’t a gunshot. Alex was still unconscious by the time we got there, but he’s been yapping ever since, claiming you were a six-foot monster that attacked him.”
“He’s . . . he’s okay?” My brain was having trouble processing the information.
“Oh yeah, no concussion. He’ll be fine. We’ve been after him for a while now . . .”
At this point, the officer continued to talk, to explain, to chuckle, but it all became a warbled jumble in my brain. I didn’t shoot him. The shot I heard was from my imagination, from my terror, from the part of me that needed to get away, that felt helpless as he tried to hurt me. It all made an alarming kind of sense. Grandma didn’t buy any bullets. She just bought the gun, and I didn’t know anything about guns other than they shoot and kill people. She had wanted me to take lessons, so of course she’d never hand me a loaded weapon I could accidentally discharge. I was so wrapped up in the sheer and utter terror of being near a gun, I hadn’t thought about any of it logically.
Officer Cortez’s voice slowly faded back in as my thoughts began to clear. “So there’s your reward. We’ll need your statement as well, and I’m assuming you’ll be pressing charges. Did you want your weapon back?”
“No. You keep it. I don’t want it anymore.” And that was the truth.
Officer Cortez seemed to be taking in my frazzled state because he nodded, his expression gentle. “Probably for the best.” He slid over a small stack of the paperwork along with a pen. “If you could sign those forms, you’ll be all set to go.”
I read through the paperwork, and the more I read, the lighter I began to feel. This was real. This was happening. My attacker, Alex Peters, was alive, not even injured.
Signing the last piece, I slid it back to the officer. He gathered the paper into a pile, stood, then extended his hand for me to shake. I took it awkwardly, but a part of me wanted to leap across the table and give him a hug.
“Someone will call you if we need you to testify, but honestly, the case against him is as solid as they come. We probably won’t need you.” He took his hand back and motioned to the reward check with a nod and a wink. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”
I was dazed, but I managed a smile as he left.
I didn’t kill anyone.
I wasn’t a murderer.
I was alive.
And I was free.
The warmth of the sun hit my face as I walked out of the police station. It had never felt as calming as it did in that moment. I basked in its rays, closing my eyes, letting what had happened truly sink in.
“Excuse me.” A woman’s voice brought me out of my reverie.
I opened my eyes. Not a good idea to stop and stand still right near the entrance doors. “Oh, sorry.” I moved away from the entrance.
But the stranger smiled. “No worries. I wouldn’t have said anything if I’d been able to open the door without hitting you. You looked really . . . happy.” Without waiting for an answer from me, she entered the building.
Happy.
Yes.
I was . . . happy.
The vibration of my cell phone buzzed in my pants pocket, and I pulled it out. Not recognizing the number, I answered it anyway. “Hello?”
“Is this Jeraline Arnold?” A cheery woman’s voice sounded on the other end.
“Yes.” I almost asked it as a question, surely her overenthusiasm had to mean she was a telemarketer.
“I’m from Cassiopeia Design School. I’m calling to tell you that your designs won first prize in our contest!” she practically shrilled with excitement.
Heart drop.
“What?” I squeaked. Yup. I actually squeaked.
“Congratulations! You just earned yourself a full scholarship!” She squeaked too.
There was all sorts of squeaking going on, feeding off of each other’s excitement.
“But what about what happened with my dress?” Why did I bring that up? Self-sabotage much?
But her tone went from peppy to sympathetic in an instant as she said, “That was horrible. I’m so sorry that happened to you, but it wasn’t your fault.” The pep came back full force as she added, “Besides, the modeling is just
