I pressed my fist hard against my lips and closed my eyes, unwilling to fall apart in front of Hansen and Randall Johnson so easily. I had to be strong. I had to get through this if it was the last thing I did because I sure as hell didn’t bust my ass to get onto this department only to spend the next however many years in jail for something I didn’t do.
I refused to back down or cower because that’s not who I was.
“I’m being framed,” I said. “Someone is trying to get rid of me, Mr. Johnson, and that’s why I’m here.”
“I believe you,” the attorney said gently. “But the police department has a witness, someone who claims they saw you near the crime scene leading up to the fires. Both of them.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” My stomach lurched with nausea, and I had to take a deep breath to keep from vomiting all over the stone-cold floor. “Who is this witness? Is it Jeremy? Or Tanner?”
“No, neither of them.” He stood up then and offered his hand. I stood to shake it. “The witness’ name is Brenda Sharpe. That’s all I know.”
“Brenda Sharpe?” I repeated. “That sounds so familiar. Do we know her?”
“I don’t think so. She just described what she saw, and it sounded like you.” He sighed heavily. “I’ll be back tomorrow, hopefully with more information. Let me see what I can find out before I tell you anything more, okay?”
After Randall Johnson left, Hansen stayed with me a while longer, his strong arms pulled tight around me, heard beating against my cheek.
“I didn’t do it,” I whispered, and Hansen nodded.
“I know.”
“So why doesn’t everyone else know, too?” I looked away from him before he could meet my gaze. My insides did somersaults, and a painful lump in my throat grew, suffocating my confidence and everything I ever thought I was or had been.
“We’ll get this figured out,” Hansen said.
“I’m innocent.” The words that came from my mouth were weak, meager. I spoke as though I’d never stood up for myself in my entire life, a small, pitiful woman on the verge of a breakdown. The fire I’d felt earlier was gone. My determination to prove my innocence shriveled and was thrown away. I wanted to shake Hansen. I wanted to shake and plead to him until he took me in his arms and settled me down. But I didn’t do any of those things. I stayed where I was, frozen in a time that seemed to drag on forever, ticking mindlessly in the back of my head. Time was of no essence here, not if they decided I was guilty.
“The evidence is adding up,” Hansen said after what seemed like an endless, dreadful silence. “Whoever this witness claims they saw you there, Paisley. And after your fight with Jeremy, it went downhill from there.”
“Someone is framing me.” I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt. “Whoever jumped me in the pub’s parking lot told me I wasn’t wanted at the station and that I should quit.”
Hansen looked at me then, his eyes searching my face, probably to try and determine if I was telling the truth. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“I was embarrassed.” I looked away from him and back to the wall. “I thought that’s as far it would go, Hansen. I never imagined someone would take it any further just to get me to quit.”
“Paisley.” Hansen hesitated. “If you had told us the truth from the beginning, you might have enough evidence on your side to fight this. But you didn’t. You kept it from me, the police, and everyone else.”
“It doesn’t matter!” I cried. “It still happened, and I’m still innocent.”
“I know.”
“Do you really?”
“Of course, P—”
“Get out.” I hadn’t realized it had been me who’d said it until Hansen looked over at me, trying to meet my gaze. I refused him, turning my head away so he wouldn’t see the single tear that ran down my face.
“Don’t do that,” he insisted. “We’ll figure this out.” When he reached for me this time, more out of pity than anything, I assumed, I shrugged his hand away.
“Get the hell out,” I said again. I jumped to my feet, seething, pointing at the cell door when he didn’t. “Get the fuck out of my face, and don’t come back.”
Chapter44
Hansen
A six-pack of beer that night didn’t cut it. Burrowing in the locked cupboards of my empty house, I came up with a dusty half-full bottle of malt whiskey. Without considering a glass, I popped the cap off and took a long swallow, closing my eyes as I chugged, wishing that the burn in my lungs and the sting in my eyes would distract me from the situation. I felt so lost, so confused. Nothing made sense. Paisley was innocent; she had to be. There was no other way I could accept it. And yet here I was, getting drunk at home and alone while Paisley was in a holding cell, and I had no idea what to do from here.
I sat on the couch and flipped on the TV, mainly for some background noise. A soft buzz was making its way to my head, and I closed my eyes, my hands shaking slightly. A breaking news report popped up on the screen somewhere in the background. I looked up just in time to see the anchor lady start speaking on camera.
