“How can you be sure?” Sylvia pressed. “It was dark. You were busy ducking bullets, even steering the Jeep.”
A few feet away, General Sullivan pressed a palm to the wall by the one-way mirror and leaned closer, intent on Rachel’s answer. His eyes all but bored through the glass into both women.
There was intense. And then there was in-tense.
“I’ve worked in stressful situations before with search and rescue missions.” A hint of irritation flashed in her eyes, but she held her cool, stroking Disco’s head. “Shifting rubble in the aftermath of an earthquake. Pitch-black woods in a storm, looking for a missing toddler. Tracking escaped convicts. I could go on and on. But the point is, I’m as sure as I can possibly be. Brandon Harris was not in the car that rammed us.”
“Fair enough.” Sylvia swept a hand along her immaculate auburn hair. “If we go with the assumption he wasn’t in the vehicle, then who else could be gunning for you?”
“Who else?” Rachel’s ability to hide her frustration with the extended questioning seemed to be wearing thin—which was no doubt Sylvia’s intention. “Who else besides the person in the military that I’m accusing of espionage? Individuals who could be in a crap ton of trouble if they’re discovered and Brandon’s story turns out to be true?”
“Even if Harris’s ramblings are accurate, there could still be another explanation for the threats against you, and we need to explore that. So think, please.”
“Besides Brandon? Completely separate from this…?” She blinked fast. “I hadn’t considered that.”
Liam frowned, stepping alongside the general to follow more closely. As much as he wanted to be in there with Rachel, wrapping himself around her like an armored tank if need be, Sylvia was making headway here.
“Okay,” Sylvia said, “assuming it’s not, what about the other people you’ve helped?”
Rachel’s lips went tight and thin with barely constrained anger. “Why does everyone assume that just because a military service member is suffering from PTSD, he or she is automatically going to start killing random people?”
“There’s no need to get defensive. I’m only exploring every possibility, so truly, you can calm down.”
“I will… when you stop patronizing me.”
Sylvia’s eyebrows shot upward, only a brief break in her cool before she smoothed her features again. “My apologies.”
“Apology accepted.” Her fingers resumed stroking her dog’s head, something he was fast realizing she did to calm herself. “It just freaks me out to think of how they would react to this kind of inquisition. They’ve already been through so much without having you hassle them.”
“Understood.” Sylvia thumbed a smudge on the side of her iPad absently. Or so it seemed. Nothing about this woman appeared anything but calculated. “Let’s change gears and go back to my earlier question about possible suspects. How are you supporting yourself? I don’t imagine there’s much money in therapy dogs for disabled vets.”
Liam angled closer to the window, wondering why Sylvia had backed off questioning Rachel about Harris when it was obvious she knew more than she was sharing. Had the general picked up on that as well?
“I teach dog obedience classes and I’m training service dogs. It brings in enough to let me do what I want with my life.” Rachel shook her loose curls back over her shoulders with a dry smile. “You may have noticed I’m not exactly into haute couture.”
Grinning back, Sylvia twisted one pearl earring. “And how do you afford the dogs?”
“My animals are all rescues from shelters.” She frowned, her eyes darting from side to side as her mind appeared to race. “Except…”
“What?” Sylvia pressed, her hand falling to her lap.
“Not all of the dogs are owner surrenders or strays. Some have been seized due to neglect or abuse by so-called humans—scum of the earth, actually. Charges were pressed and sometimes evidence of further crimes was found in the homes.”
“Ahhh…” Sylvia nodded. “And those people could have a grudge.”
“Do you want me to make a list? Sadly, it could well be a long one.”
“Eventually, yes, but right now, keep talking. Follow where your mind was headed. You’d be surprised what comes up when we don’t overanalyze.” No question, the interrogator had a knack for putting people at ease, which made them spill more.
Rachel leaned forward, her fingers gliding down Disco’s spine as the dog stayed immovable by her side. “Some of the dogs are what you would call pit bulls.”
“What I would call?”
“Pit bull is a catchall phrase for a number of different breeds—bull terriers, Staffordshire terriers, American bulldogs. People use the phrase pit bull pejoratively. But bulldogs make great therapy dogs because they bond so strongly with people. There are owners out there who will abuse that bond and turn them into fighters.”
“These people wouldn’t be happy about your taking their livelihood. Dog fighting is often tied to gang activity. Could one of them be out for revenge or trying to get an animal back?”
“That’s certainly possible… but I’m not able to give you anything helpful there. I know the history of the dogs I take in, but I don’t know names of their original owners.”