Chapter 20: The Turkey

Mason pulled on his jeans and went to the door barefoot.

I wrapped myself in the sheet and followed him as far as the hallway.

Two officers stood on the porch, one tall and one short, with a flashlight and a notepad.

"Sir, we got a call," the tall one said. "A woman reported another woman being held against her will at this address."

"Held," Mason said.

"Caller said she was crying and begging. She said the man was a film director."

I stepped into the light.

"I'm Willa Mercer," I said. "I'm the woman. I'm fine."

The short officer looked at me for a long moment.

"You're the writer," she said. "From the thing today. My sister sent me the video."

"Yes."

"Are you here by choice, ma'am?"

"Very much by choice."

She glanced at the sheet, then at the rumpled bed through the open door behind me, and her mouth did something complicated.

"We have to ask you to step out on the porch and say it where my partner can hear."

I did, in the sheet, in the cool night air.

"I'm here because I want to be here," I said clearly. "Nobody has touched me that I didn't ask to. I'd like that written down."

The tall officer wrote it down.

"Did you place the call?" Mason asked.

"No, sir. It came from a prepaid number." He turned a page. "The caller was a young woman, very soft-spoken. She sounded upset."

"Did she give a name?"

"She said she was a friend of the lady's. She said the lady was unwell."

Mason and I looked at each other.

The short officer put her notepad away.

"Whoever called us wanted you embarrassed, I think," she said. "Or wanted you out of this house."

"Out of the house," I repeated.

"Ma'am?"

"Nothing," I said. "Thank you."

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