Fiona swallowed a sigh. “I am doing that, but this job gives me an opportunity to observe people without them knowing about it. They’re less likely to be on guard, or to tell me what they think I want to hear.”
Christine only frowned. “I’m not going to stop worrying about you. But I am glad you’ve found something that will keep you occupied after I’m gone.”
Fiona rubbed her chest, the memory of her mom’s words aggravating the now-permanent ache behind her breastbone.
A late-in-life “miracle baby,” Fiona was an only child. Her father, a police officer, had been killed when she was ten. He was shot while responding to a domestic disturbance call, and while the Houston police department had rallied to support Fiona and her mother, they couldn’t fill the void left by her dad.
The loss of her father made Fiona feel even closer to her mother. “It’s you and me, kid,” Christine liked to say. “Together, we can get through anything.”
And for thirteen years, they had. Until that unusually cold March afternoon, when Christine’s doctor had called to tell her there was an abnormality with her latest mammogram.
Fiona had been twenty-three when her mother was diagnosed with cancer. What she hadn’t known—what the doctors hadn’t been able to predict—was that it would take her mother five long, agonizing years to die. Fiona had worked a string of part-time jobs while acting as a caregiver, an exhausting schedule that brought home just enough money to pay her tuition and stay afloat. Being a clerk at the convenience store was the best-paying job she’d had yet, which was why she’d decided to stay on after her mother died. She could go to school in the afternoons and work at night, and with the notes she’d compiled so far, she was getting ever closer to finishing her master’s degree.
While she wouldn’t trade the time she’d spent with her mother for anything, she did feel a sense of longing when she saw couples out together, laughing and having fun, or pushing a baby stroller. She hadn’t dated since college and, given her schedule now, there wasn’t a lot of room for a man. That was okay, though. She needed to focus on finishing school, and starting a relationship would only delay that.
Despite her self-imposed single status, Fiona could still appreciate a handsome man. Like Nate. She let her thoughts drift, pulling up the image of his face. She liked knowing his name now, though she’d have to get used to calling him Nate instead of Hot Guy. She’d been attracted to him before tonight, of course. Her fingers tightened on the coffee cup as she imagined him in his dress uniform. His golden skin would look amazing against a black starched shirt, and she was willing to bet he had a lot of shiny medals to pin against his broad chest.
Medals probably earned for stupidly brave actions that could have gotten him killed, her practical side pointed out. She remembered her dad and his friends—adrenaline junkies, all of them. And their exploits weren’t limited to the job. Her father had had a string of affairs, no-strings-attached flings with the women who liked to hang around the precinct, looking to date a cop. “Badge bunnies,” her mother had called them.
The thought darkened her mood a bit, pulling her back into reality. There was a reason she didn’t try to date cops, no matter how sexy they were.
But, her libido responded, he’d been deliciously solid on top of her, and she wished the circumstances had been different so she could have actually enjoyed lying underneath him. It had been a long time—too long—since she’d felt the weight of a man, and unless she decided to throw her plans out the window, she wasn’t likely to feel it again anytime soon. And even though she was hesitant to date a cop, maybe they could have a little fun before they went their separate ways? Nate was going to drive her back to the store, so maybe she could trip and pull him down with her...
She shook her head at the wild fantasy as Officer Rodriguez—she just couldn’t call him Steve after such short acquaintance—walked back into the room. He caught her gesture and gave her a concerned look. “Everything okay?”
Fiona felt her face heat. “Um, yeah,” she stammered, grasping for something to tell him. She settled for holding up the coffee cup. “I was debating taking another sip, but decided I was better off just holding it for the warmth.”
He gave her a sympathetic wince. “Sorry about that. We drink so much of the stuff around here, you’d think we could make it better, but no one ever seems to have the time.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said with a smile. “Bad coffee and police stations are supposed to go together. I’m pretty sure there’s a rule about it somewhere, kind of like peanut butter and jelly.”
Officer Rodriguez laughed. “I suppose you’re right.” He sat across from her and tapped the pages he’d been carrying into order. “I just have a few things for you to sign, and then you’re free to go.” He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and slid it across the table.
“First up is your statement,” he said, passing a stapled collection of pages to her. “Just review it for accuracy, and if you’re satisfied, initial at the bottom of each page and sign on the last page.”
Fiona started to glance over the text but was interrupted by the appearance of another form. “Next, we need your updated contact information. And finally,” he said, handing her yet another piece of paper, “you need to sign this form indicating your desire to press charges against the assailant.”
“Do you think he’ll be convicted?”
Officer Rodriguez shrugged. “I doubt he’ll make it to trial—his public defender will probably try to plead him out.”
Fiona nodded. “Good.” She grabbed the pen and prepared to sign, but a disturbing thought made her pause. “Will he know my name?”
The officer frowned. “The perp? If it goes to trial, then, yeah. That will be a matter of public record.” He watched her set the pen down and rushed to add, “But you don’t need to worry. I’ve never seen a case where the witness was harmed for testifying.”
That was reassuring news, but Fiona still felt uncertain. What if he got out on parole? Wouldn’t he be angry with her for sending him to jail in the first place?
Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Officer Rodriguez offered her a reassuring smile. “In my experience, once the trial is over, the victims are able to move on with their lives.”
“So you don’t think he’d come after me if I decided to press charges?”
The officer shook his head. “It’s not worth it. If he contacted you, he’d be in even worse trouble. Criminals are dumb, but they’re not stupid, know what I mean?”
Not really, but his confidence went some way toward calming her nerves. This was the right thing to do—if she didn’t press charges, the man who’d attacked her might get away with it, leaving him free to rob again. And the next time, there wouldn’t be a police officer there to save the day.
On a sudden burst of conviction, she signed the bottom of the form and pushed it across the table. There. It was done. No going back now.
Officer Rodriguez collected the papers and gave her a smile. “You’re doing the right thing, ma’am.”
She nodded as he left the room. Now what? She’d given her statement, answered all their questions and signed the necessary paperwork. Was there anything left for her to do here?
