“Sylvie Calloway,” he said. “You’re the owner of a van with VIN number…”
He read out a long series of letters and numbers that didn’t sound familiar to me because who the hell knows their own VIN? And then a license plate, which did, because that I knew. “That’s my van. The plate, at least. I don’t know my VIN number.”
He slid a piece of paper across the table, and I looked down.
Eli snatched it up, flipped it over in his hand, and scowled. “You’re giving her a parking ticket?”
“The van wasn’t supposed to be parked there. She gets a ticket.”
Eli folded the ticket and shoved it in his back pocket, his gaze landing on me with a very clear message:let it go. I gavethe slightest nod. I didn’t have the energy to argue, though it seemed enormously petty, considering the vehicle in question was in pieces. But whatever.
“I’d like to see my van,” I said.
The detective ignored me. “Did you witness the explosion?”
I nodded.
“Run me through what happened.”
I did, starting with my trip to the burger place for dinner, and the approximate time I’d come back.
“Explain to me why you didn’t stick around to talk to the fire department. They were there minutes after you say the van exploded.”
“I was scared. Disoriented,” I explained, wishing I could tell enough of the truth to make me sound like less of an idiot. But I was letting Eli take the lead on what we should say to the police at this point. I had no idea what he knew about Emily Shaw, but it was more than I did.
“When you’re scared,” the detective said, “talking to law enforcement is usually a good first move.”
I didn’t respond to that statement, giving him a blank stare. He kept up with the questions.
What was I doing in Atlanta? Why was I parked in Midtown? Why had I gone to Sinclair Security? Why was I with Eli?
I never got to answer the last few, Eli stepping in smoothly to take control of the interview. I found his bossiness annoying when it was directed at me, but if he could get this detective to stop shooting questions my way, I’d have to reevaluate. A little bossiness could be a good thing.
“Sylvie’s a client,” he said. “When the van blew up, she realized she was in danger, and she came to ask for protection.”
“Podcasting pays that well, huh?” The detective raised an eyebrow, staring across the desk at me.
“It can,” I said, taking a little satisfaction in the way his eyes narrowed. Usually, helping law enforcement was my thing, but that parking ticket brought out my inner rebellious teenager.
“You have no idea who blew up your van?” he asked, sounding exasperated.
“I don’t,” I said. “I wish I did. I want whoever did it caught.”
“And you’re sure it wasn’t you?”
I shook my head, impatience bubbling up. “I can show you my insurance policy. Trust me, it’ll cover some, but not everything, the van was worth. I built the interior myself.”
My throat closed as those words hit, and in a flood, I remembered endless hours of sweat and splinters, the smell of wood, sawdust everywhere, sanding until everything was butter-soft and smooth as silk. It had been beautiful, or as beautiful as I’d been able to make it with my mediocre carpentry skills. It had been home. I swallowed hard.
“I want to see my van,” I said.
“You can’t,” the detective answered. “It’s evidence in an investigation.”
“If there’s anything left, I’d like to?—”
“There’s nothing left,” he said firmly.
I set my jaw, prepared to argue. The detective shook his head. He turned a computer screen, hit a few buttons, and a picture flashed up. I didn’t recognize the burned-out shell as my van. The inside was charred black, the metal frame skeletal.
