Her grip was delicate. Cold fingers like brittle sticks clung for a beat before letting go. “Jolie.” Her accent was thick, and I would have been happy to flip to French, but she continued in decent English, so I followed her lead. “Are you one of the detectives working the case with those murdered boys?”
“I am.” I grabbed a chair from a vacant desk and brought it over. “Would you like to sit? We can chat about why you’re here.”
Jolie sat and took a second to remove her hat and mitts, piling them meticulously on her lap. A spill of golden curls tumbled over her shoulders and spilled down her back. Her headbandhad slipped, so she took a minute to adjust it. She unzipped her coat but left it on.
I let her settle, watching as she warily scanned the bullpen, nervously twining her fingers and biting her already raw lower lip.
“How can I help you, Jolie?”
She stared at her knees, worry stamped into her brow. “Jesse Vargas. Ford Carrigan. Malik Quinn.”
“Do you know them?”
She said nothing and wouldn’t look up. When a single tear fell onto her folded hands, a chill skated up my spine and over my scalp.
“Not personally, but they raped my best friend. It was them. I recognized them.”
My chest burned, the air entering and leaving my lungs scorching hot. I didn’t speak for fear of frightening her off or pouncing too eagerly on something I’d been convinced I would never figure out.
I was right. I was fucking right.
Jolie trembled, her body curling in on itself. Thin limbs. Sunken cheeks. Tiny frame. She was hardly the embodiment of a killer.
“I saw it on the news. I called Bastian and told him. I said, ‘It’s them,’ but he said I was mistaken. He refuses to talk about the past. I’m not mistaken, Monsieur. I know their faces. I see them in my dreams at night. I can still hear her. She cried for months after, and I didn’t know what to do. She wouldn’t talk about it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“His name was Jesse. After it happened, she said his name was Jesse. His friends called him that. She heard them, and I believed her. We did not know the others by name. Only their faces. But our memories were not good enough. Too much alcohol and drugs, he said. He wouldn’t take us seriously.”
“Bastian said that?” I reached for a pad of paper, determined to take notes. “Or do you mean the cop you spoke with three years ago?”
“The constable. He was cruel.” Another tear. “He called us whores and would not listen.”
“I’m listening, Jolie. There is no statute of limitations on rape. Your friend can come to me. We can make a report.”
She smiled, but it was laced with too much pain to be authentic. “It no longer matters, Detective. They’re all dead.”
My thoughts spun a vortex. I had to put the details in order. Write it down. Get a concisesignedstatement. Where was the other girl? Who was the boy she called Bastian?
Gentle, I told myself.Go easy on her. Don’t frighten her off.
“The officer who took your statement did not do his due diligence. We can call your friend. I can take your statements right now, and she would have grounds to charge him with negligence. He will lose his badge.”
Jolie stared at the notepad I’d drawn forward, her wariness intensifying. Was she reliving the past? Maybe she had lost her trust in the police, and why not? Anyone would in her situation. Maybe it was why her friend hadn’t come.
Maybe her friend was who I was looking for, and she knew.
“Do you know who killed those boys, Jolie?”
Her pale blue eyes turned to shimmering lakes. The tears stuck to her lashes for only a moment before sliding down her cheeks one after another. She wiped them away but did not answer my question.
“Why did you request to remain anonymous three years ago when you spoke to Constable Yates?”
“We were afraid. We snuck out of the house to go with Bastian to the party. He had a friend in university who invited him. My parents would have killed us. Bastian did not even have his full license. He stole Papa’s car from the garage, knowinghe wouldn’t miss it overnight. My parents always go to bed early, so we waited until they had retired to their room. Bastian could have been arrested. It would have ruined his chance for scholarships. He would not be where he is today.”
“Is Bastian your brother?”
“Yes. He… He doesn’t know I’m here. He would not approve.”
