Her Final Confession

Chapter Thirty

Josie practically leapt the short flight of stairs to the first floor. Noah’s feet pounded down the steps behind her. She burst into the lobby, pulling up short when she saw Gretchen standing in the center of the room, looking pale and wan. She wore the same pair of black slacks and the same white Denton PD polo shirt she’d been wearing on the day she disappeared. Except unlike the video from the CCTV footage, now her white shirt was smudged with dirt and what Josie thought looked like drops of blood. A tear in the left knee of her pants exposed a shock of white skin. Dried blood caked around a two-inch gash over her left eyebrow.

“Gretchen,” Josie said.

Her brown eyes darted all around the room, as if she could hear Josie’s voice but not see her standing right in front of her.

Josie heard Noah tell Lamay to call an ambulance, which seemed to snap Gretchen into focus. Briefly she met Josie’s eyes and then looked behind her to Noah and Lamay. “No, no,” she said, extending her wrists toward the three of them. “I don’t need medical attention. I’m turning myself in for the murder of James Omar.”

Noah stepped forward, moving in front of Josie. “Gretchen,” he said softly, “you’ve got quite the cut over your eye there. You probably need stitches.”

Her arms shook. For just a moment, a look of desperation passed over her face. Then it was gone, and the blankness was back. “No,” she insisted. “I don’t need stitches. Just take me into custody. I want to turn myself in.”

Noah looked back at Josie, as if to ask what to do. Josie reached for Gretchen’s shoulder, but she shrugged her away. “Okay,” Josie said softly. “How about this? We’ll go into the conference room, just down the hall.”

Fury flashed across Gretchen’s face. Ignoring Josie, she thrust her arms at Noah, palms upward. “Take me into custody. I’m turning myself in.”

“Gretchen,” Josie interjected, “let’s just sit down and talk, okay?”

“I don’t want to talk,” she snarled. “I want you to do your fucking job.”

Josie kept her voice calm. “I’ll do my job. But you have to let me.”

“Arrest me,” Gretchen said.

“We can arrest you. There’s already a warrant out for you. But if you’re going to make a confession,” Josie replied, “then we’ll need to call the state police.”

She signaled to Lamay, and he said, “I’ll call,” but kept standing there, watching the exchange. It was protocol for them to call in the state police if one of their own officers was going to confess to a crime. This avoided any conflict.

Josie turned back to Gretchen. “Are you sure you don’t want to have a seat and collect yourself first?”

Gretchen’s voice was practically a growl. “Arrest me.”

“Fine. Since you’re turning yourself in, I don’t think we need to cuff you. If you’re going to be in custody, then we have a responsibility to see that your medical needs are taken care of. We need to get that cut looked at before we do anything else. Gretchen, you know this—”

Gretchen’s punch came hard and fast—so fast that Josie had no time to react to it. She didn’t even know the older detective could move that quickly. Or perhaps it hadn’t been that fast. Maybe it was just that Josie was unprepared for the strike because it was coming from Gretchen. One moment Josie was watching anger and desperation flash across Gretchen’s face, and the next she was on her ass on the tile floor, her cheek stinging with pain. Noah and Lamay pinned Gretchen to the floor beside her, yanking her hands behind her back. Josie’s fingers touched her cheek and came away wet with blood. She stared across at Gretchen, whose cheek was now pressed firmly against the tiles as Lamay cuffed her. Her eyes were closed, but her face—relaxed now, its lines loose and slack—registered a single emotion: relief.