Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
I hear Soren ask if I am okay, which fills me with warmth. He sounds genuinely alarmed and scared shitless.
“She’s fine, man. Beaten up, shaken, but the girl is one of the strongest bad asses I know. She didn’t need me. I needed her.”
Braken ends the call and seems content that his friends are going to take care of the situation.
“I’ll call the police next.” Braken exhales through his nose, running two leather-clad fingers along my mangled hair. “Then get you home. And don’t even think about leaving bed for the next two days. You need rest.”
I feel like I won’t be able to. My body is so sore and tired, but my mind is alert, running through the scenes that just played out before me. But I nod anyway. I know better than to question Braken Frost.
Braken pats my head and steps away to call the police. I hug my arms close to my body, setting my chin on my knees. Sirens wail in the distance, sounding like the angry cry of lost souls.
These sirens might not be coming for me, but others will be. It’s only a matter of time.
I can never escape who I am.
Chapter 41
Braken
Detective Ralph Finnegan looks and smells like he smokes two packs a day.
The interrogation room is small and cold, and the steel chair is extremely fucking uncomfortable. Especially now since I’ve been sitting in it for over four hours, recounting the same exact story, word for word, every time this bastard asks. I’ve already been in this room countless times, but they keep calling me back. I do dance, however, because with all Soren, Locke, and my father’s favors cashed in, I’m still sitting here a free man. A cop is dead, and I’m not in jail. I’ll consider that a win and answer every question over and over again if it makes these assholes feel like they are doing their jobs. But this is getting ridiculous.
Yes, I’m sure Marco kidnapped Fiora. Why don’t you check the cameras? No, I’m not 100% sure it was Marco who called in a fake gas leak, but it’s pretty convenient, don’t you think? Do you want to question Fiora again? Because our stories haven’t changed. Can I have another glass of water? No? Okay, well, fuck you, too, then.
My lawyer sits to my left, looking as annoyed and pissed off as I do. He’s been with our family for decades and has seen way more incriminating shit than this. He also knows not to ask questions. We pay him and his firm enough money to keep his mouth shut.
It’s been a week since the events on the rooftop. The incident has been all over the news. Having a hotel mogul and shipping heiress almost die sells a lot of damn papers. There’re interviews with police informants, with Marco’s family, with my business associates, with Fiora’s acquaintances. People hound my hotels for information or paparazzi photos. Visitors want a glimpse of a “cop killer”, and there are those who offer quiet nods of solidarity.
“You really expect me to believe this?” Ralph asks for the seventh time. “He died on your property.”
He wants me to crack, to show that I have a temper, and that he got me on some weird technicality. I inhale through my nose and slowly exhale. They’ve got nothing. If they did, I’d already be locked up behind a jail cell. Fiora and my stories haven’t changed. The evidence corroborates our story. But he keeps asking the same questions over and over, hoping I offer the slightest slip-up.
This stinky douchebag should know better.
“You can believe what you want, but the evidence points to the truth. Which I’ve willingly told you.” I tap the cold metal table with my fingers a few times. “Do you have any more questions for me, Detective?”
“Plenty,” Ralph answers.
But his angry frown only deepens when he realizes he’s got jack shit on me. I came here willingly and no charges have been brought against me—something my lawyer has reminded him of twice now since we started.
“Are we done here?” My lawyer grabs his briefcase. “I believe my client has made his story clear.”
“This isn’t over.” The detective points to a picture of me that’s been clipped to his file. “Keep your phone on, Frost. I’ll be in touch.”
“Of course.”
I try not to roll my eyes when we stand and shake hands. As if I’d want to shake hands with this neanderthal. But I don’t want him to mess with me any more than he already has, or interrupt any of my business. Though I have to say, being in the news has been a big boost for my hotels. Funny how people know the name Frost now more than ever. All it took was a douchebag putting me and my woman on his murder list.