“Right by a shopping cart return, southeast corner.”
“That’s the employee lot, right?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I’m not familiar with that store. First time there. I only noticed the employee entrance sign because I tried to walk through it first.”
“And I bet your last time,” Rodgers intones. “Hate to ask, but why stop there? You’re clearly a sophisticated woman, and that’s a very seedy part of town.”
“I know,” I sigh. “I wanted pho over there; that strip mall has one of my favorite spots.”
“Oh, that Vietnamese place, what’s the name?”
“Viet Palace.”
“Damn straight.” His yellow teeth form a smile, his chew making a distinct pouch underneath his lower lip.
“You went out the front entrance when you left, and . . .”
“And it was semidark, probably closer to ten p.m. The lot was fairly empty, not many vehicles.” I twist my hands in my lap, careful to avoid touching the broken skin. “I’ll admit, I should’ve been paying more attention. I only had a couple of plastic bags of groceries, and I was looking down at my phone, texting.”
Both sets of eyes are trained on me. “Before I could register what was happening, I was being grabbed from behind, or I should say, the hood of my coat was. At first, I thought someone was tugging on it to get my attention. It took me a second to realize the seriousness of the situation. I was yanked backward and dragged behind a parked vehicle.”
“A dark-red truck, is that correct?” Williams asks.
“Yes, maroon colored, midsize, think it was a Dodge.”
“Was it their vehicle?”
I muse, “I don’t believe so; they never tried to put me in it. I think it was just random. They pulled a gun, I screamed, and it startled them. They ran away after an employee came running to see what the commotion was, into the vacant lot that sits next to the store.”
“They didn’t do anything else . . . ?” Rodgers stares at my bruised face.
“No, they didn’t try to assault me that way.”
“You keep saying ‘they.’ Do you have reason to believe it might’ve been more than one person?”
“The person was tall, or at least taller than me, but dressed bulky. Presumably it was a man, but I can’t say that with one hundred percent certainty. It was one person, but I don’t know if someone was waiting for them after.”
Williams’s pen’s poised in the air, his expression unreadable. “Description?”
Frustrated, I say, “I provided this last night to Officer Mahoney and Sparrow.” They don’t respond, both peering at me. “I could only see their eyes. Green. Caucasian. Everything else was covered, even their hands. Oh, the boots weren’t Doc Martens—you know, the ones with the yellow stitching—but more like some type of combat boots.”
“Anything stand out about their face?” Williams asks. “Tattoos, moles, or freckles?”
Taking a minute, I consider the question. “Nothing I could see.” I can hear the pen moving on the notepad. “Anything else?” I ask.
“Did they use a knife as well? Is that where the cuts on your hands came from?” Rodgers inquires. “Defensive wounds?”
“No, they pushed me to the ground, and there was a broken bottle or something.” I finger the red, angry lines across each of my palms.
“And the gun?”
“What about it?”
“Had you ever seen it before?” Williams taps his pad again. “Since it belonged to your ex?”
“No.” I gesture with my hands. “But he could’ve had many weapons I didn’t know about. Convicted felons can’t own a firearm, is that correct?”
“Yes.” Rodgers shakes his foot out. “That’s why we want to find out who it’s been in possession of.”
“These details have been extremely helpful, Mrs. Coburn.” Williams closes his notepad with a slap. “We’ve got one more question before we go, Charlotte, if you don’t mind . . .”
My back goes rigid. “Yes?”
“Would you mind telling us why your mother called the nonemergency number for an officer to be dispatched to your house?” Williams frowns. “Is there something we should be aware of?”
I glance down at my hands, bare without the wedding band and my watch. “Nancy called in a welfare check?” I tilt my head, stupefied.
“Yes, just this morning.” Rodgers juts his bottom lip out, his uneven teeth prominently displayed.
“That’s the other reason we stopped. Might as well kill two birds with one stone,” Williams offers. “With your history, we wanted to make sure this incident didn’t trigger something that was a cause for concern regarding your health.”
Idioms. I despise them. I hate when people spout off figurative instead of literal language. Shuddering at his nonsensical comment, I tug my earlobe in annoyance. “I don’t know why she would.”
“She expressed concern, since she couldn’t get ahold of you.”
I hold up my phone. “Well, this was missing.”
“Do you need to get checked out?” Williams is nonchalant. “Make sure you don’t have any more injuries?”
My mouth puckers, and the tapping of my foot resumes, full speed.
“It’s not a bad thing your mother is concerned. She called the police because she was worried about you.”
Rodgers adds, sympathetically, “It’s further evidence she cares.”
Or wasn’t getting what she wanted, I demur to myself. But they don’t know my mother, so I let the observation slide.
“No, not at all a bad thing.” I try not to sound flippant. “Now that I have my phone back, rest assured, I’ll reach out to her.”
I rise, silently commanding them to follow. “I didn’t get much sleep last night, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to lie down.”
“Of course,” Rodgers says, Williams concurring.
Rodgers adds, “We’ll communicate to Nancy you’re safe, but if you could as well, it’d be much appreciated.”
“Please do.” My phone buzzes in my hand. “Excuse me, gentlemen; you can see yourselves out. I’ve got to take this.”
I see Noah’s face on the screen.
For once, I silence the call, too upset to even chat with him at the present time.
Another call comes through, and this time “No Caller ID” flashes on my screen.
I don’t answer strange numbers.
It stops, then flashes again. Probably Nancy.
In my mind, I see Jonathan, and this time it’s his eyes staring at me from behind the ski mask. Warning myself to get a grip, I say out loud, “You’re safe. He doesn’t know where you live, he’s locked up, and he no longer has any hold over you. It’s over.”
Except it’s not over. It’ll never be over. Our shared history will always be an internet search away, permanent, like the scar tissue on my abdomen from the emergency surgery I had after I lost the baby.
And because the gun that was originally in my glove box belonged to Jonathan Randall.
I stole it from him when he packed up his shit to leave.