SIXTY-TWO

SIXTY-TWO

KYLE REPLAYS THE VIDEO clip, starting it with David collapsing and the masked assailant running out of the camera's range. David, lying helpless by the rear door, desperate, initially clutches his thigh. But then he reaches into his jeans pocket and removes a phone, looks at it, and tosses it.

"That's his phone," says Kyle. "The one registered to his name, I mean."

David then reaches into his jeans pocket again and wrangles out a second phone.

A second phone. David had a second phone. I'd been wondering about that. That late night call he made downstairs in the kitchen, which I overheard, while his cell phone was charging in the bedroom. The words I heard him whisper in a hiss: It's not that simple, okay?

"That's his burner phone," Kyle tells me, stating the obvious.

The video rolls on. David pushes a button on the burner and raises the phone to his ear. A single button, meaning he had the person on speed dial. He talks into the phone for around ten seconds. Then he all but collapses, his head dropping lifelessly against the concrete as he goes into shock, the phone still clutched in his hand.

"Any idea who he called?" Kyle asks.

I let out a breath, look at the floor as the heat rises to my face.

"Not you," he says, again stating the obvious. Goading me. "He knows he might be dying, and his last call isn't to you —"

"Do you have a point?" I snap. "Or do you enjoy being an asshole?"

Kyle puts his phone in his pocket, trying to control his emotions. "Marcie, I promise you, I'm not enjoying one minute of this. Who was he calling?"

Keep it under control, Marcie. Stay on mission.

"I have no idea," I say, though I do.

"Camille Striker." Kyle looks at me for a reaction. "I told you her name earlier today when I pulled you over. You said you didn't know the name."

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold, even though it's quite warm in this room. "And I still don't know her name. Is that … is that who …"

"Is that who he called? I don't know yet. Neither phone is registered — not David's or the one he called. Both are burners. Which is interesting right there." He again looks at me for a reaction. "I just sent some detectives to her apartment. She isn't there. We tried to do a real-time trace on that phone, but now it's turned off, conveniently. In case you're wondering — in case you don't already know — Camille lives in the Hampton Apartments, by 1st Street. On a lease. A lease paid for by your husband."

Stay focused. He's trying to get a rise out of you.

I sit on the couch and bury my face in my hands.

"Marcie, the man in the operating room right now is not David Bowers. It's Silas Renfrow. I can't prove it yet, but I will. And Camille Striker is his longtime girlfriend. She was a computer technician in the US Marshals Service back in the day. She found out where Silas's secret location was in Rockford and helped engineer his breakout. She's his girl. She's always been his girl. And now she's pregnant, by the way."

My hands remain over my face, elbows on my knees, as I take all that in. That was his final punch. He wants me to break. Whatever it is I know, whatever it is I suspect — he wants me to spill it. But I can't. Not yet. Not until I'm ready.

"Am I a suspect?" I ask for the second time, this time through my fingers.

"I already told you. I'm still trying to figure that out."

I draw a deep breath, sit up straight, and pat my knees. "I'm not answering any more questions." I get to my feet and head for the door.

He steps to the side to block me. "Marcie, no. Don't be like that."

"‘Don't be like that?' This isn't high school, Kyle. This isn't a spat. You're a cop, and apparently I'm a suspect. I have rights."

"What …" He cocks his head, looking at me with a combination of frustration and abject disappointment. "What happened to you, Marce?"

What happened to me? What happened is that my husband is hanging on to his life right now, and I've just come to learn that he's not the man he's always claimed to be. And my entire family is in danger. That's what happened to me.

"I'm going home," I say. "When my kids wake up, I need to be there."

I walk through the emergency department and let them know I'm going home, making sure they have my cell phone for any updates on David. Then I head through the sliding doors into the open air, far chillier than I remember. I don't have a ride. It would take forever to get a cab or an Uber this time of night. But I don't want to be around the police anymore. I'll walk home if I have to.

I'm two blocks away from the hospital, rubbing my arms for warmth at half past two in the morning, seeing my breath hanging in the air, when a car pulls up alongside me. A Jeep whose shape resembles that of the car that was sitting outside my house the other night.

The window buzzes down. I walk over, but not too close, leaning down to see into the car. A woman, about my age, pretty. Long, kinky hair.

"Marcie," she says. "I'm Camille. Do you know who I am?"

I nod. "I have a feeling I do," I say.