She moved carefully by Jo, then cut through the yard and up to Atchison’s back door. A radio squawked as she stood there. Then the blinds parted, the door slid open, and she disappeared inside. Holton looked back at Jo.
“You’ve been following me?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, but his eyes flickered, and she knew she was right.
“You’re coming down to the station for questioning,” he said.
Jo thought about her options. There weren’t many. She could refuse to talk to him, but she didn’t know if he’d drum up some charges to take her in. And if she rebuffed him, she would look guilty of . . . something, and there’d be more eyes on her, more attention. If she talked her way out of this, he might continue to follow her, and she’d be left trying to dodge him.
“All right,” she said, knowing she sounded irritated but not bothering to hide it. “I’ll talk to you. May I put my arms down?”
“Get her in your vehicle and take her to the station,” Holton told the other officer, a burly man with a flat face and a thin mustache.
“What do you want me to do with her then?” the officer said.
“Hold her until I get there,” he snapped.
The officer nodded sheepishly, then holstered his gun. Under Holton’s watch, he cuffed Jo and led her to a squad car waiting outside the alley. He put her in the back seat, where Plexiglass separated them.
The only sound on the drive to the station was his radio chirping now and again. When they reached the station, he uncuffed her, then put her into an interrogation room. Jo waited there, staring at the blank walls and the camera that hung in the upper corner. Nothing to distract her.
Her internal clock ticked, and by her estimation, she waited an hour before Holton came in by himself. He plopped a file folder on the table and sat down across from her. They locked eyes, and then he stretched his back and let out a huge sigh.
“You know, I have a lot going on,” he said. “And you’re not making things any easier on me.”
“I convinced Sabrina to talk to you. That’s something.”
He nodded slowly. “She had quite the story to tell.”
Jo arched an eyebrow. “You don’t believe her?”
The detective leaned back and crossed his arms. “You know I’m not going to tell you about my investigation. But I do want to know how you tracked down all those people.”
“Who?”
He glared at her. “Rico Ortega and Sabrina, for starters.”
She glanced at the file, knowing what was likely in it. She took a long moment to consider.
“What’s in the folder?” she asked anyway. It was worth seeing how much he’d tell her.
His gaze strayed to the table, but he didn’t open the file. “I did an initial search, and then I made some phone calls. You have quite the background.”
They found more on me, she thought.
“I need to know what’s going on,” Holton said. “Sabrina mentioned David Lebow, Jane Dinkle, and Trent Fontenot. What do you know about them?”
Jo decided she had nothing to lose by sharing her information with him. “I don’t know much about David Lebow and Jane Dinkle,” she said. “Just what I could find on the internet. But something’s going on with Trent Fontenot.”
There was only the sound of his breathing as he narrowed his eyes.
“What about Fontenot?” he asked.
“He was working on a big story,” Jo said. “One that might’ve gotten him killed. You know about his murder?”
Instead of answering, he said, “And you know about him how?”
She thumped the table with her hand. “You know what I’m talking about, right? Atchison was his producer. Trent was looking into a man named JD Babineaux. Atchison’s scared of him, and so was Trent.”
He contemplated her for a long time, then said, “Tell me what you know.”
Jo didn’t waste any time now. She told him everything she’d discovered since she’d last seen him. When she finished, the detective sat with arms crossed, rocking slightly. He had a good poker face, she’d give him that—she couldn’t tell whether he believed her or not.
“You’ve harassed quite a number of people,” he said.
Jo shook her head. “Did you talk to Atchison? He’ll confirm at least some of what I’m saying. The guy’s scared, but he knows something’s going on.”
Holton uncrossed his arms, leaned forward, and opened the file. She’d been through this routine before, where a detective questioned her about her background. There were things in her past that others never discovered—highly classified information—and this would be no different.
But he managed to surprise her.
“What happened in Colorado?”
It was her turn to lean forward. “What do you know?”
He again surprised her by being straightforward, which she hadn’t expected.
“There was a situation at a biolab,” he said.
