“Keep her there,” Hendricks says. “I’ll have a team en route by morning. In the meantime, document everything she knows. Names, locations, timelines. I want a full debrief.”
“Copy that.”
“I assume we’re going after the people responsible?”
I grin. “You assume correctly.”
“Good.” He hangs up.
Lowering my feet, I let the chair drop to the floor and set my phone on the table. “He’s in. He’ll be here by morning.Until then, we keep Jenna safe and get everything she knows on record.”
Jake nods. Mason’s already moving toward the office, probably to set up recording equipment for her statement.
Emma pushes off the counter. “I’ll get a room ready for her.”
“I’ll do it,” Jake says, standing. He doesn’t let Emma lift a finger, even though she’s only a couple months pregnant. I don’t blame him—I’d be the same way.
“I’m going to change.” I pluck at my wet shirt. And then I have to drive into town to make sure Harper is actually secured and not a loose end.
17
HARPER
The house is dark when I finally pull into the driveway, but there’s a light on in the kitchen.
Dad’s still up.
I sit in my squad SUV, the night still playing on a loop in my head despite the fact that I drove around for an hour trying to calm myself. My hands are shaking—I can’t make them stop. My whole body feels like it’s vibrating at the wrong frequency.
I destroyed a crime scene tonight.
I harbored a trafficking victim without reporting it.
Instead of calling dispatch or the FBI, I condoned letting a civilian make off with the apparent victim of a crime.
In short, I crossed every line I swore I’d never cross.
The crazy part? I’d do it again.
That’s the thing that scares me most. Because if I had to choose between what I’m supposed to do and a woman’s life, there’s no question.
They don’t cover shit like that in the police academy.
Exhaling deeply, I force myself out of the SUV. My legs feel unsteady as I walk to the front door, like I’ve been at sea for days and the ground won’t hold still.
Since Dad is in the kitchen, I go to say good night to him before I head upstairs.
He’s at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee and a stack of paperwork. When I walk in, he looks up, his cop face on. I see the relief flash across his face before it hardens into dad-mode.
“You’re home late, Harper.” His voice is stern, like I’m still in high school and missed curfew. “You didn’t call.”
“Yeah, well.” I know better than to point out that he doesn’t either when he’s been out lately. I drop my keys on the counter and move to the fridge. “I stayed out later than I expected.”
“Where were you?”
“The Rusty Spur.” At least I was at first.
He frowns at me. “Alone?”