Total pages in book: 170
Estimated words: 160166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 801(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 534(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 801(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 534(@300wpm)
How the fuck did any of this happen? How did I let it get this bad?
A painful knot grows in my chest, but I refuse to let it take over. My body feels colder than it did in that tank of ice water.
The memory is chilling and again, I look to the door. With every small movement, the metal clinks on the table. Apart from the occasional jolt from the less than warm heater being turned on, the metal clinking is the only sound I can hear.
As I slowly slip, I know one thing is true. I wish I could call my mom. I wish I had talked to her.
It all feels hopeless, but if I could just talk to her, she would make me feel all right. Even though she’d know there isn’t anything at all that’s all right.
With a sudden bang, the door opens. Shocking me back to reality and startling the shit out of me.
Two new cops come into the room, letting the door bang closed behind them. I shiver in the gust of cold air. Both men, one clean shaven and the other with scruff. Neither of them give a kind expression as they stare at me so uncomfortably I have to look away.
It’s as if they already know everything. Every little horrid detail.
Shame consumes me as one of them, the shorter one, puts a paper cup on the table in front of me. It’s black coffee. The sharp aroma drifts up to my nose and goosebumps travel down my arms. I don’t even like black coffee, but I’d appreciate the heat and something to help me think straight.
“That’s for you,” he says, then appears to notice that I’m handcuffed to the table. “Oh. Here.”
He undoes one of the cuffs, letting my right hand go free.
I don’t pick up the coffee. That’s probably a trick so they can get my fingerprints on the cup. I don’t have an ounce of trust for any of them. I don’t know which parts of this are tricks. I put my hand on the table instead.
“Thank you,” I murmur in response, staying calm as I can.
“You’re welcome.”
“I want to talk to my lawyer. His name is Michael McHale.”
The second cop shakes his head. “He’s not going to be able to get you out of this.”
I almost say I didn’t do anything. It would be so easy to say it and a nervous part of me wants to get it over with. But my teeth clench shut tight. Declan said to say nothing. Not a word except my lawyer’s name. “Thank you” is more than he wanted me to say.
So I say nothing. The other chairs scratch on the concrete floor as they drag them where they want them and sit across from me. They ask me what I was doing there at the motel.
They ask me about the money.
They ask me about Declan.
I don’t say a damn word in response. All I do is listen and watch their faces. They don’t crack, they don’t stop. Time ticks on in the too cold room and so much time passes that the steam from the coffee ceases to exist.
And it’s colder. The room is so much colder now.
“You have to have something you want to get off your chest. It was very obvious that you would have done anything to escape him in that room.” This statement is made from the taller of the two. Deep hazel eyes filled with what appears to be compassion stare back at me as I look up. Emotions swarm instantly and I could choke on them.
“Tell me what happened,” the man attempts a comforting tone.
“I don’t have anything to say to you.” My voice cracks and I can feel the last thread stretching tight as I grip the edge of the table. I add, “Just like I told Detective Barlowe and Detective Hart at the hospital.”
The cops exchange a confused look. For the first time since they entered, the air changes, their masks on their expressions fall. Pulling out a notebook, the shorter cop glances at me with that same confusion in his eyes. “You said detectives…who now? And when was this interrogation?”
Thump, thump. A chill runs down the back of my neck. Like that innate feeling that something is awful and so very wrong.
“I said I want my lawyer.” I swallow thickly, glancing between the two of them who both look back at me with pinched expressions.
The other cop clears his throat. “There are no detectives with those names, but it is a tactic some criminal enterprises use to scare their men straight,”—he looks me up and down, and I’m glad that the table is covering most of my body—“or women. By faking an identity. Like two men on the Cross brothers’ payroll acting as cops to see if someone would talk.”