Chapter Twenty-Eight

CHELSEY DRIVES TO THE STATIONin half the time it usually takes her. She steps inside the precinct. It's the usual chatter. Phones ringing. Paper shuffling. Suzette at the front desk shoots Chelsey a smile, and she tries to reciprocate, her mouth grimly twitching. Despair gnaws at her guts. A flatscreen above the bullpen flashes with breaking news and catches her attention. BOMB INTERCEPTED AT WASHINGTON GOVERNOR'S MANSION is the headline.

Bomb. The word reverberates in her psyche. A bell with a terrible ring. Bomb. Bomb. Bomb. She draws closer to the television. Is it her, or is it suddenly hard to hear? To see? Her vision darkens around the edges, tunneling. Her throat constricts. She finds the remote on Doug's desk and turns up the volume on the TV. The gurgle of conversation dies down, replaced by the news anchor.

"Little information is known as of right now. But around eleven a.m. today, a security officer confronted a would-be suicide bomber. What is unusual about this case is that the perpetrator is a woman. Seen here in this security footage," Fox London says.

The screen shifts. A woman in a baseball cap, wearing an oversized jacket, hand pressed against her abdomen, darts across an expanse of green lawn. Chelsey recognizes that fucking jacket. It is Jimmy's, the one Ellie has been wearing. Chelsey's mouth goes bone-dry. Ellie. No.

"The bomber was waiting by the gates for the governor's motorcade, and it is by a sheer stroke of luck that her plans did not come to fruition. The governor was waylaid by a flat tire. The Department of Homeland Security would not confirm the woman's identity," Fox London says over the grainy footage. "But a docent recognized the woman."

The screen shifts to a gray-haired woman in a fleece vest. "Her name is Elizabeth Black. I'd seen her on the news. She's been missing, right?" The segment flashes to helicopter footage of the governor's mansion. A sea of police cars outside, men dressed in SWAT gear. All at once, the phones start to ring—the sound high-pitched and urgent.

Chelsey stumbles back. Ellie, what have you done?

Sergeant Abbott's office door springs open. "Chelsey," he barks, cutting through her fugue. "My office, now."

Heart pounding and a little dizzy, Chelsey stands in Sergeant Abbott's office.

For a moment, they exist in dumbfounded silence. Abbott's hands flex. A muscle in his jaw, too.

"Did you have any inkling of this?" Abbott sits up straight in his chair, appraising Chelsey like a hawk.

She shakes her head, terribly unable to speak. "No," she croaks out. "Actually, that's not true. I went to the Blacks to interview Ellie and found evidence that she might be intending to hurt herself or others. I was on my way here to report it. But I had no idea where Ellie was going. What she planned to do." Ellie bombed the governor's mansion. Or attempted to. The semantics don't matter. How did this happen? This is Chelsey's fault. She missed it. She made a colossal mistake.

The world falls away. Chelsey is lying belly down, rifle cocked, an elk trained in her sight. Sweat beads on her brow, and she moves to wipe it away. The elk's ears twitch. Take the shot, her father whispers. She pulls the trigger, and the bullet lodges into the elk's left flank. The elk is gone. Dammit, Chelsey, her father berates her. That's your fault.

"I'm sorry, sir," says Chelsey. And she hears the echo of herself that day in the woods, begging her father's pardon. She doubts herself. Her ability to do this job.

"This is a fucking mess, Chelsey," Abbott states.

Suzette knocks and pokes her head in. "Sir, apologies for the poor timing, but Homeland Security is on the line. I've explained the circumstances. They're insisting on speaking to you."

"Put them through," he says, and Suzette darts away into the muted chaos of the precinct. Through the window, cops are trying not to gawk. Chelsey hangs her head. How did she not see this? Ellie had been acting strange. Evasive, even. Chelsey had attributed it to trauma. But could she have been traumatized… and turned?

Abbott taps a button on his phone, and voices rise from the speaker. There are short introductions. Chelsey doesn't remember their names, Director and Special Agent something or other. Her stomach is unmercifully compressed as if she's been punched.

"We're going to need all of your case files on Elizabeth Black," the person on the phone says. "We're sending an agent to collect."

Chelsey's hand buzzes. She forgot she was holding her phone. Ellie's parents are calling.

"My detective will ensure everything is in order when your man arrives," Sergeant Abbott promises. He stands, placing his hands on his desk, his mouth close to the speaker. Chelsey sees the ghost of her father in Abbott's mannerisms. He'd acted similarly when Lydia had been murdered. Defaulting to some robotic state. She wonders what he's feeling. About his ex-wife nearly murdered. He'd said she was the love of his life. "What else?"

There are questions about Ellie. Who she's been visiting, who has been visiting her. Chelsey runs through all of her interactions with Ellie. She thinks of her now. The way she looked at Chelsey as if falling down a bottomless pit. Yes, Ellie was withholding, but a terrorist? A murderer? Chelsey cannot believe it.

Chelsey is told not to visit Ellie's parents. A federal agent will do that. Piece by piece, Chelsey is being removed from the case. Untangled from Ellie's web.

"Do you have any idea where she might be headed?" they ask.

Momentary relief floods Chelsey: If they're asking, it means Ellie got away. They have no idea where she is. But then worry slithers down Chelsey's neck. Ellie is on the run. Alone. Confused. Afraid. Dr. Fischer says Ellie doesn't know who she is anymore. Maybe Chelsey can find her, remind Ellie of the girl she was before. You are not lost. You are not gone. There is still so much for you to do in this world. I'm so sorry that you are hurting. But this is not the end of your story. Chelsey refuses to let it be.

"Detective?" Abbott barks.

Chelsey holds her body rigid. "No. I don't. She stonewalled me at every turn of the investigation."

"Makes sense, given what we know now," Abbott says.

"It does," the director agrees.

"Anything else?" Sergeant Abbott eyes Chelsey.

Chelsey smooths her hands on her thighs. She still can't believe this is happening. Finally, she shakes from her stupor. She has only one card left to play, one way to make them listen, stand down. "I believe Ellie is trying to save someone. Another missing girl. A child named Willa Adams." She talks urgently into the speaker, words darting from her mouth like tiny arrows. "Willa is young, just nine years old. She was abducted about a year and a half ago. The timeline lines up with Ellie's disappearance. I believe they were kept together. And I believe Willa is being used as a bargaining chip, and Ellie has been coerced by her abductors. I know it looks bad, but…" She draws in a breath, hoping her voice doesn't reveal her desperation. She needs them to take her seriously. "It's not her fault. Not her fault she did this," she pleads. "You cannot treat her like a traditional suspect. She's a victim here, too."

"We'll look into it," one of the special agents says, but it is evident in his voice that he will not. He does not care. How many times has Chelsey promised something that was technically impossible, used that flat intonation reserved for matters of procedure? "But for now, Elizabeth Black is considered armed and dangerous," he finishes.

Chelsey knows what that means. Shoot first. Ask questions later. She smooths her lips together. "I'd like to be involved. Let me help search for her. I can be in Olympia in sixty minutes, an hour and a half tops."

"We appreciate the offer," another agent drawls. The sound, the tone of his voice, is a pat on the head—you tried your best, let the men take it from here. "But this is a matter for Homeland Security now." A pause. "And given the nature of your department's personal relationship with the governor, it's best if you let us handle it."

Chelsey feels boneless as Sergeant Abbott thanks the special agents and promises the cooperation of his department. They hang up.

"I'd like to go to Olympia." Chelsey rises.

Abbott shakes his head, doesn't look at her. "No, Chelsey."

"But—"

"You're off the case, Chelsey. We're off the case," he states unequivocally, jerking his head up, eyes flaring a warning. "Do not push me on this. Get those files together and go home."

She stands but refuses to leave Abbott's office. "Sir—"

"It's an order, Chelsey. Go," he nearly booms. He softens. "I… I can't deal with this right now. I have some phone calls to make. My kids…" He rubs his brow. "Files and home, Chelsey."

Chelsey places a hand on the door. "The files are in my car. I'll get them." She opens her mouth to say something more, but Abbott's head is down, tapping something out on his phone.

Chelsey drifts outside the station and makes a call.

The phone rings three times. "Detective Calhoun," Montoya answers. "Good to hear from you."

Chelsey chews on her thumbnail and tries to regroup. "You seen the news?" Across the street, a group of teens laugh and elbow one another before heading into the diner.

"Yeah," he drags out slowly.

"You hear any chatter about her whereabouts, if they know where she might be headed?" Chelsey asks, recalling Montoya worked in the counterterrorism unit for a few years. Maybe he has some intel she can use.

"Nothing. She's in the wind. But they'll have copters in the sky soon. A statewide manhunt will be underway. They'll get a warrant to pull her cell records. You know the drill… they'll start pinging towers and zero in on her location. She won't be able to hide anywhere."

How long does Ellie have before she is found? Chelsey cycles through cases she's worked or has working knowledge of that involved bombs. Were there any similar to Ellie's? There was that man, a disgruntled contractor, who set up bombs around a concert and got to another state before being caught. How long did it take? Fifteen, sixteen hours? They'd found him hiding out in a salvage yard. Shot him in the spine. Now, he's paralyzed from the neck down.

"What will they do when they find her?" Chelsey asks Montoya, even though she has an inkling. She paces the sidewalk up and down, chewing on her thumb, eviscerating the skin.

"Honestly, I don't know. Tactics change fast. And I haven't been on the team in ten years, but when I was, our initiative was to negotiate first. Since Waco, the FBI has had a directive to avoid civilian tragedies. But… this is a Homeland Security issue. It's way different. If they think she's a danger… I mean, she could have more bombs."

Chelsey freezes, absorbing the information. "Thanks," she says. "That's helpful. Will you let me know if you hear anything?"

Montoya promises he will.

At her car, Chelsey plucks Ellie's file from the passenger seat. Her hands shake. Photographs of missing girls spill onto the asphalt. There is Gabrielle with her lips puckered for the camera, stack of friendship bracelets near to her elbow. Hannah, with her face turned, peering up at something far away. Willa hanging from a set of monkey bars. And Ellie on the beach, arms out, bracing herself against the wind.

Chelsey stuffs the photographs back into the folder. She waits a beat, staring at the precinct, quiet on the outside. Her father would tell her not to stop. He'd made her chase that elk through the woods. Go after it, he'd commanded.

Daddy, don't make me, she'd said, turning to her father. Please don't.

He'd been stern yet tender. It isn't right to leave it like that. No good thing should suffer. She tracked the animal's blood-soaked trail for six hours, her father on her heels, tears brimming in her eyes. The elk had collapsed in a nest of ferns. Again, she glanced back at her father. He nodded. Go on. She cocked her rifle and shot it square between the eyes.

She grips the folder and makes a decision right then, right there. Shrugs off the self-doubt. Knows what she has to do. She gets in her car, file with her, and heads off. No, she will not stop now.