Glass Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective

Chapter 39

Zandra lied about being through with Steve. She sends him into the police department to ask for Abby. He parks in the lot next to the station's public entrance. It's not as risky as it seems. Most anyone familiar with Zandra is away looking for her. More misdirection.

Zandra covers herself in blankets crunchy with filth and hunkers down in the musty back seat of Steve's rusted out Civic. Her ankle thanks her for it by coming back to life, full of the pain she'd put on credit when her leg went numb.

She savors the awkward respite all the same. The quiet in the car spreads to her mind. Her shoulders climb down from their stiff perch against her neck. The snake in her gut uncoils and basks in the warm, fall sunlight soaking the car. For a second, she tricks herself into thinking she's back at her apartment, safe in her own bed.

The feeling doesn't last. The front door opens. Steve leans in, knuckles on the driver's seat, and calls to Zandra beneath the blankets.

"Hey, Zandra, there's no Abby inside," Steve says. His voice is hiding something. It releases in a flurry of agitation. "I'm so sorry, Zandra, I just, they came at me with these questions. I didn't know what to do, you know? I had to tell them. You'll understand, right?"

Zandra snaps to attention. The blankets fall to the floor. "What are you talking about?" she says.

But Zandra already knows. Steve cracked when the officers pressed him at the station. Or he straight up ratted her out. One of the two.

The doors flanking Zandra in the back seat pop open. She looks to her left and right to see officers on either side. They each have a hand over the holsters on their belts.

"Let's go, Zandra. No more running around," one of the officers says.

"I'm so sorry, I...I," Steve says, his crusty lips trying to force out something resembling sincerity.

"Quiet, Steve," Zandra says. Fight and flight both seem like bad options. But there's no way in hell she's giving up now, not when she's an Abby away from the truth.

Think. There's always a way out.

"It's. Time. To. Go. Now," the officer says again, this time packing more force into each word.

Zandra's eyes shift to the handguns. The officers yield every advantage in this situation. Or do they?

She's not too familiar with firearms, but she knows enough that the handguns are mostly for show at this point. The officers face each other from either end of the back seat. Neither could shoot without risking a hit on the other. Plus, the parking lot is too busy with bystanders. They'd need to clear the area first before breaking out the guns.

Zandra supposes the officers could use pepper spray instead. But wouldn't the aerosol fill the car, injuring Steve and the officers in the process of detaining Zandra? And forget about Tasers. The college progressives in Stevens Point successfully lobbied for their ban years ago. Part of some class project.

The only real option the officers have is to remove Zandra through brute force. Muscles. Batons. Things like that. Zandra can't compete with those things, but she can eliminate the options all the same.

In the space of a breath, Zandra unsheathes the lawnmower knife from her sleeve, yanks on Steve's hair until his head faces the steering wheel in the front seat and puts the blade to his throat.

"You come in here, he's dead," Zandra says to the officers. "Back off."

Part of her regrets the decision. It doesn't speak well to her innocence with Elle Carey. She figures she's damned either way. In the moment, that's enough of a justification.