Powers of Arrest (Will Borders: Cincinnati Casebook 2)

“No way,” she said. “I’m a witness under your protection. I’m coming with you.”

“Good.”

He sped out of the marina parking lot and regained Kellogg Avenue, turning west. At the first intersection, he flipped on the siren and the emergency lights. They drove that way across town. Sometimes the speedometer hit eighty.

The forlorn brick building in Lower Price Hill looked abandoned. Its front windows were covered in old plywood and the second story curtains looked ancient. But Will parked in front and got out. She picked her purse off the floor and followed him.

After several minutes of banging on the door, it opened and a wisp of a girl with red hair stood there. She wore shorts and a NASCAR T-shirt.

Will said, “Can we come in, Jill?”

“Why?”

“Because we need to talk.”

She reluctantly stepped aside and they walked in. The interior smelled of mold and cabbage. It was dark, which was to be expected from the boards over the front windows. A couple of old lamps provided illumination. The living room was painted a faded burgundy and filled with too much furniture, all of it shabby. Family photos were scattered atop the mantle above a fireplace that probably hadn’t been used in decades.

Still, Cheryl Beth was struck by the young woman’s beauty: the flame-colored hair falling to her shoulders pin-straight, a face with perf

ect features, and flawless fair skin. She seemed out of place here.

Will sat in a wooden rocking chair, while Cheryl Beth sank down to the boards of an old sofa, fearful of what the fabric might transmit to her clothes. Her Coach purse was wildly out of place. The girl settled next to her, clutching small hands in her lap.

Will waited a long time before he spoke. Then: “Jill, you told me that you were raped near the church down the street. Do you remember that?”

She gave a slight nod. “Yes.” Her voice was faint.

“You said the suspect was black.”

“Yes.”

“And that we never caught him.”

She stared into her lap and repeatedly fluffed out her hair.

“Isn’t that right, Jill?”

“Yes, sir.”

Cheryl Beth heard the soft Appalachian twang in Jill’s voice, looked around at the raggedy surroundings, and thought, There but for the Grace of God… The only thing missing was a second-hand crib and crying baby. She thought of all the girls in her high school that had gotten pregnant and never gotten out of Corbin.

Will was plainly uncomfortable in the rocker. He rearranged himself and leaned forward.

“But that never happened, did it?”

“These niggers yell at me all the time, ‘hey, baby,’ they yell. They follow me. They try to break in here…”

Cheryl Beth winced at the slur but sat there watching.

“But a black man didn’t rape you, did he?” Will’s voice was soft and soothing, inviting confession.

She sighed. “No, sir.”

He asked why she told him that.

She faced him and flushed. “Because I was afraid.” Her voice sounded grown up and battle-scarred.

After another long pause, Will said, “You don’t have to be afraid, Jill. Why don’t you tell me what really happened?”