Chapter 8: Warrant

I got dressed in the dark.

Jeans, the borrowed hoodie, my boots.

My hands were steady.

I'd been dressing for this morning for seven years.

Erik was already at the bottom of the stairs in his jeans and nothing else.

"Go out the back," he said. "Through the dock. I'll stall them."

"And go where?"

"I don't know. Somewhere. My teammate's place. I'll get a lawyer up here by noon."

"Erik."

"They'll take you to Two Harbors. That's three hours from her."

"I know."

"She starts conditioning in ten days."

"I know," I said. "That's why I'm not running."

The bell rang again.

A fist hit the door.

"Lake County Sheriff's Office. We have a warrant for Britta Skoglund."

I opened it myself.

There were two deputies on the porch, a young one and an older one with a gray mustache and snow on his hat.

Behind them, on the sidewalk, there were cameras.

Four of them.

At six in the morning.

On a residential street in Minneapolis, in December, in the dark.

Somebody had made some calls.

"Britta Skoglund?" the older deputy said.

"Yes."

He looked almost sorry.

"Ma'am, there's a warrant out of Lake County. Criminal vehicular operation, great bodily harm. I need you to turn around."

Erik stepped in front of me.

He filled the whole door.

"She's not going anywhere. Her daughter has cancer."

"Sir, step aside."

"Her daughter is six years old and she's in a hospital bed ten minutes from here, and she needs her mother."

"Erik," I said.

"I'll pay whatever the bail is. Right now. I'll drive her up there myself."

"Sir, you need to step aside."

The young deputy put his hand on his belt.

I took Erik's arm.

He was shaking.

Not with fear.

He was about to do something that would end up on every channel in America by breakfast.

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