“All considering?” I ask.
The officer laughs. “Just something folks say. Doesn't just about everybody have an 'all considering' in their past?”
“I guess they do,” I muse.
A few moments later, we turn into the small parking lot of the police station. He goes along to the side of the building and parks next to one other police car. I get out, and he walks me around to the front of the building so we can go in the main door. An elderly woman looks up from the desk when we walk in.
“Evening, Esther,” the officer nods.
“Nicolas, if you're bringing this lady in, use the side door. You know how the chief doesn't like you to bring them through the lobby,” she says.
“I'm not bringing her in,” the officer, whose name is apparently Nicolas, replies. “Not exactly. She's here to have an interview with the chief.”
“Well, go on back. He's in his office.”
I follow the officer through a door behind the desk and along a hallway. He gets to a closed door and raps on it twice before turning the knob and glancing inside.
“Chief, I have her here.”
“Come on in,” a gruff voice says.
Nicolas pushes the door the rest of the way open and steps out of the way so I can go into the office. A large man sits at a desk sipping from a can of soda. He shoves his hand into a bag of potato chips but pulls it out empty and stares at it unhappily. I walk up to the desk, and he stands, brushing off his hands and extending one to me.
“Chief LaRoche,” he says.
I take his hand and shake it. He gives the kind of unnecessarily firm handshake men tend to give when they want to exert some sort of dominance. I don't hesitate to give it right back. If there's one thing this man isn't going to do, it's intimidate me. He has no idea I'm here to save his ass, but that doesn't give him an excuse to act like he hung his fucking belt buckle in the sky and called it the moon.
“Emma… Monroe.”
I struggle over the name slightly. It's still strange to have my last name different but keep my first name. Sometimes I don't understand Creagan's decisions. A lot of times, I don't understand Creagan's decisions. But he's who determines if I stay in the Bureau or not, so I'll keep following along with them.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Monroe. Why don't you go ahead and have a seat?” He gestures to the chair across the desk from him. I settle in, and he folds his fingers together, placing them on the desk and staring at me for a few silent seconds. “Why don't you tell me what's going on?”
I suddenly have a feeling like I've come in to talk about a sore throat.
“I'm not sure what you're asking me,” I tell him.
“My officers tell me there was an incident out at the house you’re renting,” he says.
“I guess you could call it an incident. I didn't see what actually happened, so I don't know how exactly to describe it.”
“You didn't see anything? Nothing at all?”
“Nothing at all. Not until I opened my door and saw the man fall on the porch.”
“How long have you been in town?” he asks.
“I got here less than half an hour before his body showed up on my porch,” I tell the chief.
“Is that so? And what are you doing in Feathered Nest?”
Now's the time to start weaving my story, to lay the foundation of who I am and why I'm here so I can better slip into the atmosphere and learn more about it. With a little town like this, it shouldn't come as a surprise for people to be a little suspicious of a new person showing up. Places like this are well-established. Everyone who lives here built their lives with the resources and opportunities created on the backs of their mothers and fathers, and their mothers and fathers before them, and before them. Things stay close here, and new faces are always few and far between.
“I'm looking to start a new life,” I tell him. “I just got out of a bad situation and need to take some time for myself and decide what I'm going to do next. I have a cousin who lives not too far from here, and she's told me stories of driving through your sweet town, and it sounded exactly like what I'm looking for. Somewhere peaceful and quiet, where I'll have the time to think and where I can feel safe.”
With the exception of the serial killer running around, I think to myself.
LaRoche seems to contemplate what I said, then something like a smile bends his lips. The expression doesn't quite get into his watery green eyes. I don't like the feeling he's giving off. It's like the shimmer on top of a pool of oil. Tenuous and morphing. Like every time I look at him, there's something slightly different about the way he's looking back at me or the thoughts going through his mind.
“Well, it doesn't seem like you're off to a great start, does it?” he asks with an uncomfortable, inappropriate laugh.
“Am I just about done here?” I ask. “It's been a long trip, and as you can imagine, tonight has been stressful. I'd like to get some sleep.”
“I have just a few more questions for you,” he says. “You say you don't know the man on the porch.”
It's not a question, but I shake my head anyway.
“I don't. Like I said, I just got into town a few minutes before he knocked on my door. I have no idea who he is.”
“He knocked on your door? I thought you said he was dead when you opened it.” LaRoche says it like he thinks he's caught me up in some sort of lie.
I narrow my eyes at him slightly.
“I was inside my cabin checking in with a friend who wanted to make sure I arrived alright. Someone knocked on the door. Since the owner of the cabin wasn't there when I got there, and I didn't meet anyone in town, I figured it was probably them there to welcome me and give me information about the place. I opened the door, and the man fell forward onto the porch.”
“Dead?” LaRoche asks.
“Yes,” I tell him.
“And how did you know that?” he asks.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“He had no pulse,” I say.
“How did you know to check his pulse?”
“In the cupcake baking seminar I attended last summer, a sweet old lady had a heart attack while making caramel filling. She just laid there for the next twenty minutes because no one knew what to do with her. Finally, someone thought to check her pulse and called 9-1-1 when she didn't have one. The paramedics came for her, and that very night the organizers of the seminar stopped all cupcake baking to teach everyone how to properly check a pulse,” I answer, straight-faced.
LaRoche stares at me like he's trying to figure out if I'm being genuine. When I don't say anything else, he looks down at the paper on his desk.
“And when you realized he was dead, did you notice anything else about him?”
“He appeared to be bleeding,” I say.
“Did you see who did it?” he asks.
I look at him strangely.
“I didn't say anyone did anything to him.”
“Well, if he was bleeding, don't you assume someone did something?” he asks.
“Not necessarily. The cabin is out in the woods. He could just have easily been attacked by an animal. Or been in an accident.”
“And you didn't come to any conclusions?”
“No.”
He stares at me for a few long seconds, then stands again, offering me another handshake.
“I appreciate your time. I'll let you know if there's anything else I need from you. Welcome to Feathered Nest. Nicolas?” The door to the office opens, and the younger officer looks in. “Bring Ms. Monroe here somewhere to wait.”
“To wait?” I ask. “For what?”
“Until the body has been properly processed and removed from the porch, you can't return to the cabin. I'm sure you understand that. The officer will bring you somewhere comfortable to wait, and I'll let you know when you can return.”