“Looking for Alan Tusker. Celia Tucker gave me his name.”
The officer in front of us raises his eyebrows, and Sawyer stiffens beside me, withdrawing her hand from mine. It’s the reaction I expected, but it still makes my heart kick with a shot of unease. Having her mad at me might be practical, but it’s one of the last things I actually want.
“You talked to my mother,” Sawyer whispers fiercely beside me. “When?”
“I’ll grab Alan for you,” the officer says, moving away from the counter and leaving Sawyer and me alone.
“This morning,” I say, half turning toward her. “I had to.” I meet her gaze, and I shutter mine. She’s not going to make me feel guilty for protecting her. Of all the things I might regret, this won’t be one of them.
“I was handling it,” she says, her tone brimming with anger. “You didn’thaveto go to her.”
“I did what I did,” I say, unwilling to argue. “I won’t apologize for keeping you safe.”
“Sawyer?” a male voice says from across the counter.
“Yes,” she says, the word tight.
The officer, portly and older, comes around the side of the counter and gestures for us to follow him. I go without hesitation, but it takes Sawyer a beat to follow us. God help me if this lead goes nowhere, and Celia has really just fucked me over. Given the stories I’ve heard at the family events I’ve attended with Sawyer, I think it’s possible.
He leads us into an office and indicates two chairs for us to sit in. There’s a large computer monitor on the desk, and he types in information before turning his attention to us.
“Celia called. Said you were coming. Officer Foster had a system of inputting crimes related to the Tuckers when no further action was being taken.”
The word “related” is an interesting choice, but I’m not here to question police corruption on the island. I just need Stephen Foster to have kept good records the night Sawyer was assaulted.
“All the evidence will be there?” I ask.
“Should be. He was a bigcover your asskind of guy in relation to Mrs. Tucker. Had to be.” He focuses on Sawyer. “Just to ease your mind, if you weren’t here in person and didn’t know about the Tucker database, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We don’t give this information out to just anyone.”
Which, hopefully, means that Dalton has no idea this database exists. His behavior and the way he’s walking around like the cat that’s going to catch the canary would support that.
“My assault is in there?” Sawyer asks, voice shaking.
“Stephen Foster was the one who responded to the call?” Alan asks, typing some information into the computer.
“Yes,” she says, and the word is thick with emotion.
I take her hand, and I’m surprised when she doesn’t try to draw away. Instead, when she turns to look at me, I can’t read anything but anxiety in her expression.
“Date?” Alan asks.
“June tenth.”
“Address?”
Sawyer rattles off the location of Dalton’s building and apartment number.
Alan rotates the screen for us to see, and the pictures of the back of her head cause such a rush of rage that I realize my emotions aren’t nearly as well controlled as I’d like to believe.
The pictures of her face show a bruise on her cheek and a cut lip. She said he pushed her, but I’ve been in enough fights to see this as more than a shove.
“Doc?” I say.
“I don’t remember the injuries on my face,” she whispers. “Just my head.”
“I’m no doctor,” Alan says, “but that head injury doesn’t look good. Paired with the trauma of being assaulted, memory loss is normal. It’s why we try to document so carefully.” He enlarges the report at the bottom. “Officer Foster clearly indicates domestic violence, a punch or slap to the face—mentions something about a ring on Worthington’s hand likely causing the gash on your lip—and then the corner of a table causing the contusion on the back of the head. He notes photos that have blood and hair from the corner of the table.”
“I did get knocked out.”
