"Westbrook Recovery. Their driver showed up before state patrol had authorized a tow."
Thomas stared.
I continued.
"Garrett said he called them. The driver wanted access to the Rolls-Royce."
Thomas looked toward the younger investigator.
Then back at me.
For a moment, he seemed to be considering several possibilities.
Finally, he asked, "Did anybody access the secured communications case?"
"Not while I was there."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes. Lieutenant Brooks prevented the tow and arranged for evidence preservation."
Thomas exhaled.
"Good."
I studied him.
"Thomas, what aren't you telling me?"
He looked toward the door.
Then lowered his voice.
"Westbrook Recovery may be one of the civilian businesses involved in moving the missing Army equipment."
I stared.
"And Garrett?"
"We don't know yet."
I looked down at my injured wrists.
Thomas continued.
"But your stop is no longer being treated as an isolated incident by the agencies reviewing it."
I felt a terrible clarity settling over me.
The racial hostility had been real.
The violence had been real.
The humiliation had been real.
But somebody might also have known I was working on the missing-equipment investigation.
And somebody might have wanted the vehicle stopped before I reached my next check-in.
I looked toward Thomas.
"Was my source compromised?"
His expression hardened.
"That's one of the questions we're investigating."
I took a slow breath.
Then asked the question that frightened me most.
"Does somebody inside our investigation know who she is?"
Thomas didn't answer immediately.
And that silence told me more than I wanted to hear.
At 6:30 that evening, I was finally allowed to leave the hospital with instructions for follow-up care.
The examination found bruising, abrasions, and symptoms consistent with pressure injuries from the handcuffs and force used during the detention. My physicians advised rest and reassessment of the persistent numbness. They also documented my injuries carefully, knowing the records could become relevant to the investigation.
My father arrived before I was discharged.
He walked into the room carrying a small paper bag.
Inside were a bottle of water, a clean cardigan, and a container of peach cobbler.
I stared at him.
"Dad."
He looked toward the bag.
"Your aunt said you shouldn't have to miss dessert because somebody else acted a fool."
I laughed.
Then I began crying again.
My father placed the bag on the bedside table and hugged me carefully.
For a long moment, he didn't speak.
Then he whispered, "I've got you."
I closed my eyes.
I had needed those words more than I realized.
When we left the hospital, I looked out at the parking lot.
There were ordinary cars.
Ordinary families.
People arriving with injuries, illnesses, worries, and emergencies that had nothing to do with me.