“Let’s go to bed and see how
that works out.”
The deadbolts hadn’t been installed yet, but not wanting
another display of insecurity in front of Jack, I fought the urge to wedge a
chair under each door. After all, I had 9-1-1 right here.
Still, dreams pursued me the whole night through. I was
next door, sure that something was amiss at the salon in Lisa’s absence. I
trudged along, carrying a key as long as my arm and as heavy as a brick, ready
to unlock the door and take care of whatever might be wrong. Seeing nothing
unusual on the main floor, I left the huge key on the reception desk and went
to check the basement.
The darkness was as absolute as it had been the day Lisa
and I had descended the rickety stairs. It smelled old, felt damp, and I
recoiled as a spider web brushed my face and got caught up in my hair. As my
foot hit the rough dirt floor, I reached out one arm and extended my fingers,
searching for the chain to the light, trying to remember where it was. But to
my horror, when I found the chain, someone else’s hand was already wrapped
around it. I turned to scramble up the stairs, but whoever was down there with
me, grabbed my ankle and dragged me back. I awoke, clutching my throat, unable
to scream; the feeling of that hand on my ankle so real, I yanked back the
covers to look.
Jack slept, unaware of my middle-of-the-night trauma. I
went to the kitchen to get a drink of water, and not knowing whether to take a
sleeping pill or a happy pill, I took one of each.
Chapter 16
Jack kissed me awake around 8 a.m., and I struggled to pull
myself out of what felt like a coma. “I made coffee,” he said. “You were really
out, so I let you sleep. But Rochester’s going to be here at 10, so you’d
better hit the shower.”
“Yes sir ,” I
answered. “Are you always this pushy?”
He shrugged. “I have to get home and pretty myself up for
work.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be nervous, okay? Call me when
it’s over.”
“Call you at work?”
“Yeah, it’s okay. I left my number on the kitchen table.
If I’m busy, I just won’t answer. But you can leave a message.”
I hated being left to meet with the detective by myself,
afraid that his questions and my answers were going to poison the air in my
little dwelling, my sanctuary. Just the thought of law enforcement traveling
from another city to talk to me about Danny Stearns, whose image wouldn’t leave
me, made me nauseous.
I went to my computer, signed on, and Googled the
Rochester bank robbery. Several newspaper articles, photos of the bank, and
videos of interviews appeared as choices, and I clicked on the first one.
About halfway through the article, I learned that police
had interviewed all of the bank’s employees, whether they’d been at work the
day of the robbery or not. Because of the unusually large amount of money
stolen, an inside connection was originally suspected. But after questioning
the bank employees, that theory was dropped; the robber had simply chosen a day
when a big haul was available.
An inside job ,
I thought. I wondered why the police dismissed that theory so quickly. I
glanced at an old group photo of some of the bank’s employees, who had been
herded together in front of a police officer for a PR story several years
before the robbery. The caption read, Tellers
at the National Bank of Rochester receive robbery training from the local
police department. This type of training, according to the story, occurred
twice a year, particularly around holidays, when robberies were apt to
increase.
At 10 sharp, Officer Donaldson knocked on my door. I
offered him coffee, which he declined, and he stood for a moment just inside
the door gazing around the room. I waited for him to sniff the air and ask if
I’d been smoking pot.
“Lived here long?” he asked, instead.
“For years,” I said. “It’s pretty small, but I don’t need
a lot of room. It’s just me.”
“Can we sit?”
“Oh, of
that works out.”
The deadbolts hadn’t been installed yet, but not wanting
another display of insecurity in front of Jack, I fought the urge to wedge a
chair under each door. After all, I had 9-1-1 right here.
Still, dreams pursued me the whole night through. I was
next door, sure that something was amiss at the salon in Lisa’s absence. I
trudged along, carrying a key as long as my arm and as heavy as a brick, ready
to unlock the door and take care of whatever might be wrong. Seeing nothing
unusual on the main floor, I left the huge key on the reception desk and went
to check the basement.
The darkness was as absolute as it had been the day Lisa
and I had descended the rickety stairs. It smelled old, felt damp, and I
recoiled as a spider web brushed my face and got caught up in my hair. As my
foot hit the rough dirt floor, I reached out one arm and extended my fingers,
searching for the chain to the light, trying to remember where it was. But to
my horror, when I found the chain, someone else’s hand was already wrapped
around it. I turned to scramble up the stairs, but whoever was down there with
me, grabbed my ankle and dragged me back. I awoke, clutching my throat, unable
to scream; the feeling of that hand on my ankle so real, I yanked back the
covers to look.
Jack slept, unaware of my middle-of-the-night trauma. I
went to the kitchen to get a drink of water, and not knowing whether to take a
sleeping pill or a happy pill, I took one of each.
Chapter 16
Jack kissed me awake around 8 a.m., and I struggled to pull
myself out of what felt like a coma. “I made coffee,” he said. “You were really
out, so I let you sleep. But Rochester’s going to be here at 10, so you’d
better hit the shower.”
“Yes sir ,” I
answered. “Are you always this pushy?”
He shrugged. “I have to get home and pretty myself up for
work.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be nervous, okay? Call me when
it’s over.”
“Call you at work?”
“Yeah, it’s okay. I left my number on the kitchen table.
If I’m busy, I just won’t answer. But you can leave a message.”
I hated being left to meet with the detective by myself,
afraid that his questions and my answers were going to poison the air in my
little dwelling, my sanctuary. Just the thought of law enforcement traveling
from another city to talk to me about Danny Stearns, whose image wouldn’t leave
me, made me nauseous.
I went to my computer, signed on, and Googled the
Rochester bank robbery. Several newspaper articles, photos of the bank, and
videos of interviews appeared as choices, and I clicked on the first one.
About halfway through the article, I learned that police
had interviewed all of the bank’s employees, whether they’d been at work the
day of the robbery or not. Because of the unusually large amount of money
stolen, an inside connection was originally suspected. But after questioning
the bank employees, that theory was dropped; the robber had simply chosen a day
when a big haul was available.
An inside job ,
I thought. I wondered why the police dismissed that theory so quickly. I
glanced at an old group photo of some of the bank’s employees, who had been
herded together in front of a police officer for a PR story several years
before the robbery. The caption read, Tellers
at the National Bank of Rochester receive robbery training from the local
police department. This type of training, according to the story, occurred
twice a year, particularly around holidays, when robberies were apt to
increase.
At 10 sharp, Officer Donaldson knocked on my door. I
offered him coffee, which he declined, and he stood for a moment just inside
the door gazing around the room. I waited for him to sniff the air and ask if
I’d been smoking pot.
“Lived here long?” he asked, instead.
“For years,” I said. “It’s pretty small, but I don’t need
a lot of room. It’s just me.”
“Can we sit?”
“Oh, of
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