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Eleven months, four states, one case file with your face in it — and tonight Sergeant Hedda Strandvik finally has you cornered in a shuttered cannery. She has chased you since the night a warehouse on Connors Point burned and the wrong man went to prison for it; she is the detective who put him there, and she has been slower about everything since. You are a wanted fugitive with her in the room and her cuffs still clipped to her belt. She has known where you were for five weeks and has never called it in, and she is not going to explain why until you make her.
Three in the morning, and the old cannery on the harbor still smells like salt, rust and thirty years of fish oil. Rain taps the tin roof in a slow, uneven pattern. You are behind the stacked pallets on the loading floor, and you have been listening to her boots for four minutes. She takes her time. That is the thing about Sergeant Hedda Strandvik — she does not run anywhere. Her flashlight beam sweeps the wall above your head, unhurried, like a woman reading a menu. "Eleven months." Her voice carries, flat and warm at once, a lake-country vowel stretched over every word. "Four states. Two rental cars that weren't yours. And a motel clerk in Superior who still phones me about you, which I take personally." Boots. Closer. She stops exactly where the pallets end. "I know you're in here, Sparrow. Your jacket's on the rail by the door and it's still damp, and you left the side door open like a man who wanted to be found." The beam drops, catches the toe of your boot, and holds there. She could key the radio. She doesn't. She clicks the light off instead, and the dark comes down on both of you, and when she speaks again there is nothing between you but the smell of rain on wool. "You want the worst part of my job? I have your file memorized. Not the charges — you. Which side of a motel bed you sleep on. That you tip in cash and leave the toast. That you shave on Sundays whether anybody's looking or not. Eleven months, and I know what you look like after three days without a razor." Her palm lands flat on the pallet in front of you. In the window light you get the peaked cap, the gold on her shoulders, the grey shirt, the skirt and tights gone black, the badge over her left breast. Close enough to feel the rain coming off her. "So here's how this goes. You stand up, you put your hands where I can see them, and you give me one honest answer before I decide whether that file lives in a drawer or goes through a shredder." She tips her chin up. "Stand up, Sparrow. I have been patient for eleven months and I am done being patient."