"Okay, please hold." I wait, and my anxiety feels like it is in overdrive.
“Hello.” I swallow when I hear his voice and lose my bravado. I set the receiver down and lay my head on my arms. I should shut up about this.
The phone rings, and I pick up. "I do have your number, you know." He sounds amused.
“Detective Jameson?”
“You wanted to speak to me.”
“I-” Why can’t I find the words. “Could I speak to you?” There is silence at the end of the line.
"Yeah, sure, I can come over."
“No, I’d rather come to you.” I say quickly.
"See you in an hour, then?"
"Yeah- sure." I cut the call and stare at the phone for a few minutes.
The public entranceof the station is intimidating. Just walking in here makes me feel claustrophobic. The smell of floor cleaner mixed with old papers makes me nauseous. A few people sit at booths filling in paperwork. I can hear chatter, probably from the office block, and two cops stand off to the side talking. I walk over to the reception desk and wait behind a lady filing a report against someone for harassment. I listen to her rattle off the reasons to the desk sergeant about why this other person should be incarcerated, and I grow more anxious. Maybe this was a bad idea. I can still walk away now, call Detective Jameson and tell him it was nothing.
"Mrs. Finley." I hear a familiar voice and turn to see Detective Jameson approaching. In another setting, he'd make the ultimate book boyfriend. He fits the profile. Broody and mysterious, suspicious of the world. His brown eyes are so dark they could be black. Those arms. His lips… What the hell am I doing?
“Hi, Detective,” I manage.
"You want to follow me this way?" He directs, unsmiling. I do as he says and follow him down a short corridor. The lighting is poor, and the farther away we get from the public area, the more uncertain I am that coming here was a good idea. He leads me into an office. We don't say a word. The sound of an old air conditioner sings in the background.
"Take a seat." He motions to a chair at a round table near a window. I oblige, and he does the same.
"Thanks for seeing me on such short notice," I say.
"How can I help you, Mrs. Finley?" I can tell he isn't one for small talk and I like that. I twist the straps of my handbag. Where do I even begin?
“I think I’m being followed, or have been, for a while now.”
He leans back in his chair, a dark eyebrow arches as he observes me. I hate the way he scrutinizes me. "Go on."
"I told Chelsea about it. I’ve been getting calls from an unknown number, received a few odd poems in the mail, and just had this feeling, you know that I was being watched."
“Poems?”
"Yes, dark stuff, about secrets. I didn't think anything of it at first, but then it became obvious this person was trying to tell me something."
“Mrs. Finley -”
"Just Sin," I tell him.
“Sin. We can have someone hang around your home, just for observation, maybe tail you. Do you think this has something to do with your friend's disappearance?”
"I didn't think so at first. But then I got this," I reach into my bag and pull out Chelsea's scarf. I sit it on the table between us. "It's a scarf I bought her. She wore it at a bake sale we did together. I - I got this in the mail today."
He nods and stands, walking over to his desk. He pulls on some gloves and retrieves a plastic packet from the drawers. He slips the scarf in the package. "Mind if I hold onto this?"
“Not at all.” I feel my brows pulling together. “Detective, Chelsea is one of the only friends I have. I want to do everything I can to make sure she’s found.”
He nods. “Thank you, Sin. I’ll have someone look into this. We’ll be in touch.” He pulls off his gloves and discards them in the bin at his desk.
I knew coming here was a mistake. “Is this what you say to get rid of people you’re not bothered to listen to?”
