Page 2 of Her True Blue
Knowing I’m not visible to the officer as I sit on the floor behind the counter, I lift my hands high above my head and wiggle my fingers in the air as a form of surrender like I’ve seen in the movies. I know I’m not the criminal here, but the officer doesn’t know that yet.
“Stand up slowly with your hands above your head,” he commands, as I do as he says.
“Please don’t shoot me. I’m the bank manager.” I don’t even recognize my own voice. It sounds like it belongs to a scared child and not a twenty-six-year-old woman.
I rise slowly, my legs trembling with instability, reaching for the edge of the counter, the same one that drew blood from me just five minutes earlier. God, was it only five minutes? It feels like an eternity.
My head wobbles, a whoosh of darkness descending over me, the sound of waves pounding in my ears drowning out everything else. The voice of the officer sounds so far away, like I’m in the back of a cave, the words he shouts disconnected, muffled and unclear.
And then all I see is black.
“Miss Bolton? Jordana? Can you hear me?”
There’s a crackling noise, like the walkie-talkies my brother and I used to use as kids. Someone cradles my head. Someone warm and large.
“This is Dispatch. Officer Clawson, what’s your twenty?”
There’s aclick, click, clickand then a deep, throaty male voice. “Dispatch, this is Officer Clawson. Over. I’m at Milltown Savings & Loan.” Scratchy static. “There’s a 10-18, suspect appears to have fled the scene. Aid car requested for female victim. Do you copy? Over.”
“Copy that. Medical assistance on the way. 10-4.”
And then there’s a female voice stating, “All units requested. Milltown Savings & Loan.”
I try lifting my head, but the wooziness encroaches on my vision and I return my head back down. Something hard pokes at the back of my head as the officer shifts his position.
“Miss Bolton, I’m Officer Cord Clawson. You’re okay and medical aid is on the way. You have some blood from a gash under your chin. I’m going to move your head and find something to stop the bleeding.”
The officer’s strong hands carefully move me from his lap and onto something cushiony – a vest, maybe? – and a little sigh escapes my lips. My limbs shake from possibly shock and my mouth has gone arid.
“May I have some water, please?” I say with a wobbly voice that sounds nothing like me.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be right back.”
Ma’am? What I am, his eighty-year-old grandmother? The thought would normally make me laugh, but right now the throb in my head is too much. I close my eyes at the pain.
Officer Clawson moves to his haunches and then stands, as I get a whiff of his scent. It’s a mixture of fresh clean soap, a hint of aftershave and a day’s work. He smells masculine and some kind of weird tidal wave moves over me, from my head down to my toes. It could be from the dizziness, but I don’t think so.
He returns with a Dixie cup of water from the breakroom, once again carefully gathering the back of my head in his palm and propping me up, this time against his solid frame. I take the cup from his hand and swallow the cool liquid down, feeling it coat my parched throat, giving me a momentary sense of relief.
“Ma’am, are you hurt anywhere else?” He looks me over as he presses a bunch of torn paper towels underneath my chin, holding it there in his grip.
Now that I’m in an upright position, my legs stretched out in front of me, I notice the blood spatter all over the front of my clothing.
“Dammit,” I hiss. “I just bought this blouse.”
His eyes flash toward my chest, covered in what could only be described as a murderous amount of blood, and then they move up to my mouth. He stares intently at my lips for a long second, before meeting my gaze.
A slight tick in his muscular jaw before the corner of his mouth tips up into a smile. “I take that as a no, then? No other injuries?”
I pat myself down with the free hand and shrug. “I think I’m okay.”
“Good, because I’ll need to ask you some questions about what happened so we can track this perp down and put him behind bars. Do you feel okay to move over to the table over there?” He nods his chin in the direction of the office normally reserved for new clients or business and home owners who stop in to complete their new loan applications, the walls painted a putrid green color.
I never thought I’d be the one being interviewed in there.
“I think so.” I prop my hand behind me and give myself a push up on shaky legs.
“Here, ma’am. Let me help you.”
