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Authors: Gina X. Grant
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looked right through us.
Well, of course all the living looked right through us, but she looked right through the living as well. And yet I’d describe her eyes as dead. How was that even possible?
“This here’s Maddy Stryker. You transport?” Phelps asked, obviously bored, tired and anxious to go home.
Theresa bobbed her head, “Yup. That’s me.” She accepted Stryker’s paperwork with a perkiness that would have done Miss America proud. She was the polar opposite of the tired officer whose only perkiness probably involved coffee.
While Theresa checked the paperwork for both prisoners, Leo unclipped Conrad from the bench but left the cuffs firmly in place.
“I’m going to need backup getting these two into the truck. It’s a zoo out there.”
After some discussion, Theresa led the way, followed by the two prisoners, each in the care of her respective escort: Detective Leo guiding Conrad along by the bicep again, while the scary guard marched the scary prisoner toward the waiting transport van.
I hopped down off the counter where I’d been perched, trying without luck to get a forgotten paper clip to move. I probably should have started with something even smaller, like a single staple, but I’ve developed an aversion to staples. Go figure.
Now Dante, Shannon and I traipsed after the prisoners and their escorts. Glad to be on the move, I belted out a show tune I’d learned from Char. “I love a parade, the tramping of feet. I love every beat, I hear of a— What?”
Shannon gave me a hurt look before turning away.
“Kirsty, show some decorum. Her father is facing serious charges,” Dante hissed. “Plus he just passed away.”
I refrained from pointing out the inherent conflict in those two statements, settling for a whiny reply. “Just trying to lighten the mood,” I mumbled. “Like you’re Mr. Sensitivity now.”
He’d certainly hurt my feelings often enough today.
As soon as the door to the parking lot opened, the hubbub hit us like a wave. The small group of prisoners and escorts we followed pressed through the ring of reporters waving pens and recording devices in their faces.
“Detective Leo. Peter Mercer, CBC. Can you give us a statement?”
“Ms. Iver. Rick Mansbridge, CTV News. Will you be pleading guilty to the murder of your best friend and your father?”
“Shannon. Over here. Gurvender Awatramani, Sun News Corp. Did you do it? Did you really club her to death with a stapler ?”
Wow. And Dante had called me insensitive. I’d seen this kind of mob scene in movies, but I’d always figured it for a Hollywood invention. These people were serious journalists and here they were practically clubbing each other to get the scoop. I hope there were no staplers out here tonight or someone could get seriously bonked.
“No statement. No comment.” Detective Leo hustled Conrad toward the waiting van, but Conrad had other ideas.
With an unexpected jerk, he pulled out of the detective’s grip and sprinted toward a broken lamppost. He looped his cuffed hands over it, shouting: “I’m Con— Shannon Iver. I’d like to make a statement and I want you all to get it down.”
Of course Theresa and the detective charged after him. I bet they were sorry they’d recuffed him in front. As they tried to get him free without uncuffing him, the media ringed them. And not in a nice way.
“She’s got a right to be heard.”
“The public has a right to know.”
“Ever hear of the First Amendment?”
“Yes, I have.” Theresa stepped up to the crowd. She displayed a commanding presence, silencing the media by sheer will and seeming much taller than her five-foot-seven frame. “The First Amendment is actually American law, but we do have something similar here in Canada. Ms. Iver, please speak your piece.”
My ex-boss glared at Leo until the detective took a step back. Unlooping his hands from the broken pole, Conrad turned to face the crowd. He smoothed Shannon’s skirt and
Well, of course all the living looked right through us, but she looked right through the living as well. And yet I’d describe her eyes as dead. How was that even possible?
“This here’s Maddy Stryker. You transport?” Phelps asked, obviously bored, tired and anxious to go home.
Theresa bobbed her head, “Yup. That’s me.” She accepted Stryker’s paperwork with a perkiness that would have done Miss America proud. She was the polar opposite of the tired officer whose only perkiness probably involved coffee.
While Theresa checked the paperwork for both prisoners, Leo unclipped Conrad from the bench but left the cuffs firmly in place.
“I’m going to need backup getting these two into the truck. It’s a zoo out there.”
After some discussion, Theresa led the way, followed by the two prisoners, each in the care of her respective escort: Detective Leo guiding Conrad along by the bicep again, while the scary guard marched the scary prisoner toward the waiting transport van.
I hopped down off the counter where I’d been perched, trying without luck to get a forgotten paper clip to move. I probably should have started with something even smaller, like a single staple, but I’ve developed an aversion to staples. Go figure.
Now Dante, Shannon and I traipsed after the prisoners and their escorts. Glad to be on the move, I belted out a show tune I’d learned from Char. “I love a parade, the tramping of feet. I love every beat, I hear of a— What?”
Shannon gave me a hurt look before turning away.
“Kirsty, show some decorum. Her father is facing serious charges,” Dante hissed. “Plus he just passed away.”
I refrained from pointing out the inherent conflict in those two statements, settling for a whiny reply. “Just trying to lighten the mood,” I mumbled. “Like you’re Mr. Sensitivity now.”
He’d certainly hurt my feelings often enough today.
As soon as the door to the parking lot opened, the hubbub hit us like a wave. The small group of prisoners and escorts we followed pressed through the ring of reporters waving pens and recording devices in their faces.
“Detective Leo. Peter Mercer, CBC. Can you give us a statement?”
“Ms. Iver. Rick Mansbridge, CTV News. Will you be pleading guilty to the murder of your best friend and your father?”
“Shannon. Over here. Gurvender Awatramani, Sun News Corp. Did you do it? Did you really club her to death with a stapler ?”
Wow. And Dante had called me insensitive. I’d seen this kind of mob scene in movies, but I’d always figured it for a Hollywood invention. These people were serious journalists and here they were practically clubbing each other to get the scoop. I hope there were no staplers out here tonight or someone could get seriously bonked.
“No statement. No comment.” Detective Leo hustled Conrad toward the waiting van, but Conrad had other ideas.
With an unexpected jerk, he pulled out of the detective’s grip and sprinted toward a broken lamppost. He looped his cuffed hands over it, shouting: “I’m Con— Shannon Iver. I’d like to make a statement and I want you all to get it down.”
Of course Theresa and the detective charged after him. I bet they were sorry they’d recuffed him in front. As they tried to get him free without uncuffing him, the media ringed them. And not in a nice way.
“She’s got a right to be heard.”
“The public has a right to know.”
“Ever hear of the First Amendment?”
“Yes, I have.” Theresa stepped up to the crowd. She displayed a commanding presence, silencing the media by sheer will and seeming much taller than her five-foot-seven frame. “The First Amendment is actually American law, but we do have something similar here in Canada. Ms. Iver, please speak your piece.”
My ex-boss glared at Leo until the detective took a step back. Unlooping his hands from the broken pole, Conrad turned to face the crowd. He smoothed Shannon’s skirt and
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