Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
"The cameras in that building weren't recording," Detective Andrews says. "They recycle on a 24 hour loop. By the time he was discovered, the footage was erased."
"Well, I swear he was alive. He was! I would never do something like that. I'm not that kind of person!"
"I believe you," Detective Jameson says. "We're just trying to lock down a timeline of that afternoon."
He sounds genuine, but his words are at odds with Detective Andrews's attitude. He's treating me like a flat out criminal. His expression is hardened, his voice icy when he chimes in. "How long have you been involved with Ignazio Vitale?"
Naz's name catches me off guard. "Excuse me?"
"Ignazio Vitale," he says. "How long have the two of you—?"
"I don't see how that's any of your business," I say, slipping my hands from the table onto my lap when the man's attention shifts to the ring on my finger.
"You're aware of his reputation, I presume? It's not a far stretch to think—"
"Naz is a good man," I say defensively, cutting him off. "He has nothing to do with any of this."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Of course," I say. "I don't care what reputation you think he has. He's done nothing wrong, and neither have I… I didn't do anything. I just went to talk to him about my grade, and then I left, and he was still alive."
"And where was Ignazio at that time?"
My brow furrows. Before I can respond, the door to the interrogation room opens, another man poking his head in. Clearly their superior, based upon the way both men straighten their backs, giving him their undivided attention. He struts in, eyes skimming me, as he shakes his head. "You're free to go, Miss Reed."
Detective Andrews shakes his head in disagreement. "We still have a few more questions."
"Tough," the man says. "She's lawyered up."
My eyes widen. I did what?
Detective Andrews is just as surprised, turning to me. "I didn't hear you ask for a lawyer."
I didn't know I needed one.
Detective Jameson, on the other hand, stands and gathers his things. He pulls out a business card, slipping it across the table with a smile. "If you ever want to talk, my door is always open."
He walks out, past his superior. I stand, rubbing my sweaty palms on the legs of my jeans and slip the business card in my pocket with my mother's letter as I look between the men. "So I can go?"
"Of course," the man says, nodding tersely. "Thank you for coming in."
"Sure," I mumble, my head down as I bolt out of the interrogation room. I hear the officers whispering behind me, their conversation heated, as I head into the lobby. Looking up, my footsteps stall when I come face-to-face with the last person I expected to be standing here. "Naz."
The corner of his lip twitches. "You okay, jailbird?"
I nod.
"Good." All humor fades from his expression, eyes darkening with rage as he turns his focus to the officers gathering behind me. His gaze shifts between them, taking them in, the pure hostility wafting from him enough to make the hairs on my arm stand on end. "If you gentlemen have anything else, my attorney will be more than happy to field your requests, which you're well aware of. It's why I pay him, after all."
"We had no questions for you," Detective Jameson says. "We just had a few for Miss Reed."
"Who is my fiancée, which you're also now aware of," Naz says. "Bullying a young woman is quite unbecoming of you, Jameson. I thought your mother would've taught you better than that."
Naz doesn't wait for the officer to respond. He motions with his head for me to come with him. I step past, and he presses his hand to my back, leading me out of the police station. His car waits by the curb for us. I slide in nervously, sickness brewing in the pit of my stomach.
Naz pulls into traffic, heading toward Brooklyn, before he relaxes. He slouches somewhat in the seat, letting out a deep sigh. I'm not sure if it's relief I hear or if it's exasperation.
"How did you know I was there?" I ask quietly.
"An associate gave me a courtesy call when he saw you brought in. I got there as soon as I could."
"Thank you," I say. "I'm glad you showed up."
He looks at me. Reaching his hand out, he cups my cheek, stroking the skin with his thumb. "I'll always show up."
"You promise?"
"I swear it."
I'm sitting on the bed, the note from my mother sprawled out on my lap. My gaze shifts through the numbers over and over, reciting them to memory. I'm stalling, I know it, and maybe it's senseless, but I'm almost afraid to call her.
She'll have questions.
Much the same ones I have for her.
What are you doing?
Where are you staying?
Why?
My answers are probably more scandalous than hers.
Sighing, I pull out my phone and dial the number, bringing it to my ear as it rings. I wait, almost expecting some sort of answering machine to greet me, when the line picks up. "Hello?"
This is not my mother. This voice is male, gruff with a thick sort of accent. I sit in silence for a moment, unsure of what to say or how to react, when he says it again, impatiently. "Hello?"
"I, uh… can I speak with Carrie?"
"Who?"
My stomach drops as I glance down at the paper. I know I got the numbers right. "Carrie," I say. "Carrie Reed?"
"Ah, yeah, hold on." I hear shuffling, then his muffled voice rings out in the background. "Carmela! I think it's her!"
My brow furrows. Carmela?
There's another rustling before a breathy voice picks up. "Kissimmee? Is it you?"
"Uh, yeah. What's going on, Mom? Who's that guy? Why'd he call you Carmela?"
"Never mind that now," she says dismissively. "I'm glad you're okay."
"Me? I'm fine. Where have you been? I've been worried!"
"I needed to move on, sweetheart. I told you that when you visited. It was time."
"You said you were thinking about it," I say. "I didn't expect you to pick up and leave everything behind. I went to check on you and—"