“Thank you,” Jason said, his mouth dry, his heart now racing.
“You all right?” the woman asked. “You’re sweating pretty bad.”
“I’m fine,” he managed, running his hand over his damp forehead again. “Just not used . . .” He stopped himself. “Fine,” he repeated.
She shrugged and shut the door behind her.
Jason tried to take a deep breath but found that it was impossible. All he could manage was several short, choppy gasps. Was he about to hyperventilate?
He reached for the table and tried to steady himself. Then he slowly sat down, opened his briefcase, and took out a blank yellow pad and two pens. He set them on the table and placed the case on the linoleum floor.
A cacophony of sounds erupted outside in the hallway. People talking. Someone laughing. Murmurs. A cough. The same buzzer sound he’d heard when he was let in. The jingle of chains. Footsteps.
Jason grabbed his pen and wrote the date and his name on the top of the pad, just like he was in high school about to take a test. He snorted at the ridiculous notion and, for a split second, almost relaxed.
Three hard knuckle raps ended that sensation in an instant. His stomach clenched as the door swung open. A thick-armed officer stepped inside. Behind the man, Jason heard whimpering.
“Mr. Rich?” the deputy asked.
“Yes, sir,” Jason said, standing as the officer veered to the side. Behind him, a female guard escorted a woman in an orange jumpsuit with shackles on her hands and feet into the room. The woman was crying and looking down at the floor. The cuffs on her hands were removed, but her feet remained chained together.
“Deputy Anderson,” the male cop said, pointing at the female officer, “will be standing outside the door. Just knock a few times when you’re done.”
“OK,” Jason said. Then the officers exited the room, and the door slammed shut.
For at least five seconds, the only sounds in the room were their breathing. Finally, Jason reached out and touched her hand.
“Jana?”
She had crossed her arms tight to her chest and was shivering.
“Jana, look at me,” Jason said, finding his voice.
She straightened and pushed her blonde hair out of her face. Her crystal-blue eyes, the whites red from crying, pierced his own. She looked both sad and angry. “Where’ve you been?”
“I got here as soon—”
“I’ve been calling for days. I left three messages. I called that bitch partner of yours, and she was no help at all. You need to fire her.”
“Great to see you too, sis,” he said, turning and taking a seat at the table. “Please, sit down.”
Jana huffed but did as he asked. “What the hell, J. J.? Why did it take you so long—”
“I’ve been in rehab,” Jason interrupted, figuring he’d get right to it. “Ninety days at the Perdido Addiction Center. I didn’t have access to my phone until yesterday afternoon.”
She gazed at him and wiped her tear-streaked eyes. “Well, I didn’t know that. Are you . . . better?”
“To be honest, I have no idea,” Jason said. “I was about to have a drink within an hour of discharge, and then I listened to your message.”
A tiny smile played on her lips. “So I saved your ass again.”
Jason pondered whether his sister had ever saved his ass but decided not to argue.
“Well . . .” She slammed her palms down on the table and set her jaw. “Now I need you to save mine.”
22
Almost an hour later, Jason stared at his notebook, which was now full of writing. His sister continued to talk, but he was only half listening. She’d pretty much said the same thing over and over again in ten-minute intervals.
She didn’t kill Braxton.
Yes, she took out $15,000 from her and Braxton’s joint account the day before his murder, but that was because she was afraid that Braxton was going to cut her off. He’d been threatening to do so for months, and she couldn’t risk not having any money.
She barely knew Waylon Pike. He’d done some work at their house. He’d worked for several families on Buck Island, in fact. Quiet, unassuming guy. She thought he might have a learning disability and had no idea why he’d make up such horrible lies about her. She didn’t give Pike any money other than a few hundred bucks here and there for making repairs to their boathouse and home. As far as she knew, the $15,000 was in an envelope in a shoebox in the back of her car.
Where was her car? She didn’t know. Probably impounded by the sheriff’s office. “If the money’s not there, I want you to file a lawsuit against the county. I want it filed by the end of the day. I want to sue Waylon Pike too.”