Page 22 of Old Money

I shove the station door open, bleary-eyed, my hair still hanging damp.

“Well, hello again!”

“All right, Officer, tell the truth—do you actually live here?” I give her a suspicious grin, shuffling across the linoleum. “Or is it just—”

Another head pops up beside the metal cabinet. This officer has a stack of files in the crook of one arm, and a dirty look on his face. There’s my grumpy stranger.

“I’m on overnights this week,” Jessie says, laughing at the joke I didn’t finish. “I’m on until nine—you just got lucky again.”

Lucky, right. I wonder what she’d say if I told her I got kicked out of my job yesterday, and that my brother’s only keeping me around because he’s worried people are watching me, and he’s right.

Get back in your car and leave. Now. Maybe I’ll show her the text and see what she thinks about my current luck status.

“Everything okay?” she asks as I approach the counter. I see her clock my wan, insomniac face and quickly paste a smile on it.

“Yeah! Everything’s great actually. Look what I got yesterday.” I pull out my approval notice and place it proudly on the counter. “Heck of a lot faster than ninety days, huh? It went to the wrong address, but you know, mistakes happen.”

I hold my friendly expression, watching her face for a reaction—any hint of knowing. She angles her head, knitting her eyebrows—the very picture of confusion.

“Doesn’t matter,” I breeze on. “Anyway, I know I’m supposed to make an appointment, but I was in the neighborhood. Any chance I could take a peek now?”

The other officer glances over his shoulder, his dirty look aimed at me now.

“Well, it’s not how we usually do things, but...” Jessie taps at her computer. “But if I can find your file and if you’re done with it by nine?”

I nod. Fine. Sure. Whatever’s in that file, it won’t take three hours. It’s probably just a piece of paper that says, “Made ya look!”

“Great!” says Jessie, game as ever. “Just give me a minute to print and— Oh golly.”

“What?” I ask, trying to see the screen.

“Nothing, it’s just a bit larger than most. I might need more than a minute.”

Jessie’s eyes narrow on the screen as she scrolls—and scrolls and scrolls. She nods at the visitor’s bench, still looking at the screen.

“Why don’t you grab some coffee and just hang loose a second.”

I wait a beat and then I do as she says. There’s an old percolator on the table beside the bench. I pour myself a scalding cup of coffee, watching as she clicks around. Somewhere in the back of the station, the printer hums to life.

It’s nearly forty minutes before Jessie calls me back. Sun is streaming through the front window, painting bright, golden stripes across the floor.

“This way.”

Jessie smiles, stepping down from her desk and swinging open the little half door of the barrier, nodding me toward the back. I check my watch, wondering if I’ve made a mistake.

“Maybe I should come back,” I say. “If there’s really that much, I don’t know if I’ll finish by—”

“No worries, I’ll show you the way,” Jessie says, waving for me to follow.

Cautiously, I do. Jessie leads me down the same narrow hall I walked the night that Caitlin died. It doesn’t unsettle me this time. I’m getting used to things being eerily familiar.

“Voilà,” says Jessie, opening the door to a windowless room.

There’s nothing inside but a table, and two tidy stacks of files.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says, turning on her heel. “I’ll be up front when you’re done. Don’t rush!”

I watch her go, puzzled.

Later , I remind myself. No time for that.

I settle at the table, looking at the files, each of them nearly a quarter-inch thick. I slide one off the top of the nearest stack, take a breath and open it.

The first sheet is labeled “Scene Report: Death,” and includes a date and time stamp at the top.

The rest of the page though, is filled with a series of black rectangles where paragraphs should be.

Confused, I turn the document over, then flip through the sheets beneath it—all similarly covered in blocks of black ink.

A tiny line of text at the bottom catches my eye:

This record has been partially redacted by authorized parties, in accordance with the law.

I could almost laugh. It’s printed on every page of every record—nearly all of which have been so thoroughly redacted that they’re rendered virtually meaningless.

The death-scene report includes Caitlin’s name, the phrase “found unresponsive” in the middle of the page, and “declared dead” floating in the middle of a black blob toward the bottom. The rest of the page is all blob.

I go through the other files, and eventually do start laughing.

I’ve technically been given access to everything I asked for—the autopsy report, lab results, the interviews—albeit with some “partial” redactions.

My fingertips are stained with ink by the time I close the last file, lightheaded from laughter.

I’ll be pissed later, I know. Right now, I’m just relieved to have found the catch.

“Well, jeez, sorry I used all your toner,” I say to Jessie, stepping back into the lobby. “Do you have any wipes, by the way?”

I lift my hands, twiddling my blackened fingers. Officer Grumpy looks up from the file drawer. Jessie blinks, frowning.

“Oh!” she says after a moment. “Makeup wipes! I’ve got some in my bag.”

She reaches for a backpack beneath the desk, unzipping and searching compartments. My loopy mood begins to fade, watching her dig around—the one person in here trying to help.

“Never mind, it’s fine.” I shake my head, turning for the door. “I was just—”

“No, no, it’s in here somewhere.”

She waves me back urgently, still rummaging.

“Really,” I say. “I should get going anyway.”

“Ah! Bingo,” she says, pulling a small, half-crushed box from her bag. “Still got a couple.”

She opens the box and turns it sideways, showing me the pink packets left inside. But she doesn’t hand it to me.

“Perfect. Thanks.” I search her smiling face, glimpsing something behind it now. “Did you need anything else from me?”

“Nope,” Jessie says, her smile still hard and masklike. “Not unless you’d like your copies.”

“Of the records?” I ask, dipping my chin. “I think I’m good.”

The other officer shoves a drawer shut, looking through his remaining files. Jessie’s head turns toward him slightly, but her eyes stay on mine.

“You have a legal right to keep a set of copies, physical or digital,” she continues. “Personal use only, of course. They’re confidential, and not admissible in court.”

I look back at her suddenly unreadable face. What is she saying? What am I supposed to say?

“Okay?” I say slowly. “Can I think about it?”

“Sure!” Jessie says, the strange tautness melting from her face. “You’ve got thirty days, no hurry. Oh, here you go.”

Jessie hands me the box of wipes.

“Go ahead—only two left. Looks like you might need them.”

I take it carefully, mindful of my stained fingers. Something slides against the inside of the box as I place it in my own bag—something small and hard.

I feel my own face change now. I see Jessie see it happen. She glances at the door, urging me out with her eyes.

“Happy to help!”