Page 7 of In Her Eyes

The doors open to a long hall. The sound of distant voices echoes in the large, open space, and a few yards down, a sign over a door points to the police station. We walk through the door and make our way to a reception area. The air conditioning is set to Alaska in winter. I rub my bare arms and try to hold to some body heat without much success. Lynn gets closer to me—whether because she’s nervous or just trying to stay warm, I can’t tell.

The space is small, maybe eighteen or twenty feet long, with a wall-to-wall counter framed by glass going up to the ceiling. At the end is another door, and on it, the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY are printed in red. Three desks fill the space on the other side of the thick glass. And behind them is the chief of police office, if we go by the words etched on the closed door.

An older man watches us as we approach the front. He nods and leans into one of the two small openings at face level on the glass. “How can I help you ladies this morning?” He’s all small-town smiles and charm.

“Good morning, Officer. May I speak with Detective Knox, please?”

The charm takes a back seat to curiosity, and an inquisitive expression chases away the crinkles on the corners of his eyes.

“May I ask what this is in regard to?”

“I prefer to speak with the detective directly. Thank you.” My tone is firm, but my smile is friendly. I know I look younger than my age, not that twenty-eight is old, but people, especially older men like the officer on the other side of the security glass, tend to look at me in one of three ways: like I’m a lost kid who needs help, like someone they can bully, or with lust. In this case, it’s mostly the first option with a touch of the second.

He stays silent, hands on his belt like the cops outside. The seconds stretch between us. I smile bigger, friendlier, and more confident. Lynn shifts from foot to foot just behind me.

The officer nods. “Let me see if he’s in.” He steps back, picks up a phone from a desk, pushes a few numbers on the dial pad, and speaks with someone. And with the glass between us, I can’t hear anything he’s saying. He comes back. “He’ll be right out. Take a seat, please.” He points to the hard plastic blue chairs behind us. Chairs attached to iron bars set into the floor.

“Thank you, Officer.” I walk away, and Lynn follows me. But I don’t sit. Those chairs look as inviting as a jail cell.

Lynn fidgets next to me. “Are you nervous? I’m freaking out a little.”

“You have nothing to be nervous about. I’m the one with the visions.”

She grabs my arm. “I’m nervous for you. What if they think you did it? Oh, man. This was a bad idea—we should leave right now.”

“Look around. There are cameras everywhere, and it would look far more suspicious if we chickened out now.” Whatever I face here will be nothing compared to what that poor girl suffered.

She looks up. “I didn’t even think of the cameras.”

“Don’t worry. You don’t have to say anything. Leave it up to me. Everything will be fine.” It has to be. I must trust that we are here for a reason. Just then, the PERSONNEL ONLY door opens, and a man in dark jeans and a light blue shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, steps out. He’s not in uniform. He’s gorgeous—chiseled cheekbones and a strong jawline. What one could call universally handsome. Thick hair with a slight wave, broad shoulders, the muscular lean build of an Olympic swimmer. And tall. So very tall. He looks more like a movie star than a cop. I was expecting a crumpled, bald guy with a mustache, like the detectives in the old movies Grandma made me watch with her.

His face is all sharp angles, and his eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses. Indoors. He doesn’t smile. If I had to take a wild guess, I’d say he’s not having a good day. Annoyance radiates from him. Lucky me.

The closer he gets to me, the faster my heart beats. I remind myself why I’m here and order my heart to slow down. Half of me wishes I had never stepped a foot into this building. The other half wishes I had met him somewhere else, and for a reason that didn’t involve a police station and a murder.

He stops a couple of feet away from us. “I was told you want to speak with me.”

“I want to speak with Detective Sergeant Jake Knox. Is that you?” I emphasize the name. And smile. I don’t want to talk to a random cop and have to do this all over again.

An eyebrow peeks just above the sunglasses.

“Come with me.” He walks away without looking to see if we’re following. It takes me a second to gather my courage, but I follow him, Lynn right at my heels. Someone buzzes him in, and we go through the door. The smell of stale coffee hangs in the air. We walk along a wall flanking all the desks, down a hall, and past a couple of closed doors. He stops at a door with a keypad lock and blocks our view with his body while he unlocks it. He pushes the door open and motions for us to walk in. The office is small. Institution-gray walls. A desk covered in folders sits in the middle. Tall metal filling cabinets line an entire wall. On the opposite wall is a giant corkboard covered in pictures, newspaper clippings, and sticky notes with calligraphy so bad whoever wrote it could be a doctor. And hundreds of colored tacks. The wall is organized chaos. Barred windows face the parking lot behind him. He points to two chairs, thankfully not the hard plastic kind from the front area, but they don’t look much more comfortable.

He sits behind the desk, his chair squeaking under his frame. It tilts back as if trained to the motion by uncountable hours of use. His broad shoulders hide the chairback, and it looks like he’s floating.

The sunglasses stay put, and I have the childish urge to dig mine from my purse and put them on. I sit, and Lynn follows, sitting on the chair next to mine.

“How can I help you, Miss . . . ?” He drags the S. Is he mocking me? With his eyes covered, I can’t read his expression, but his jaw is tight, and his posture guarded. Not the friendly kind, then.

“My name is Avalon Bloom. You may call me Ava. And this is Lynn Reynolds.”

“How can I help you, Miss Bloom?” He ignores my nickname.

“I want to report a murder.” I’ve never imagined I’d say these words.

He leans in now, a hand resting on the desk between us. “Okay. Start from the beginning. Who was murdered?”

My heart does its best to speed out of my chest. “I don’t know.”

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