Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
I know the man has a job to do, and it has more to do with viewing him as too soft, but I never get tangled up with anything related to work.
My eyes dart to Sawyer Maddox, knowing I fucked up big time with that rule where he’s concerned.
For a second, I consider the trouble I could be in for not mentioning my connection to the man I’m about to question, but I can’t seem to back out of the room and tell a superior.
How stereotypical for the woman on the case to have had a sexual relationship with a man who ends up being a murder suspect.
I narrow my eyes at Sawyer as I roughly pull out the chair across from him. That smirk I saw that first night we met and the one from the campground is long gone. There’s just something about being stripped of your identity and told to wear jail-issued clothes that drains a man’s cocky attitude quickly.
“Shall we get started?” I ask, placing my hands palm down on the folder I brought into the room.
Both men sitting across from me dart their eyes down at the folder before looking back up at me.
Silva looks bored, having participated in many interrogations before now.
Maddox looks like a whipped puppy and nothing like the man who asked me to spend the night in a hotel room with him as if he already knew what my answer would be.
“I want you to know that your personal belongings have all been logged,” I say in an effort to remind him that he’s not calling the shots.
His jaw flexes in irritation, no doubt the reminder that he was instructed to remove each and every one of his piercings while someone monitored him causing his annoyance.
He holds his head a little higher. “I expect nothing less from such a fine organization as the Farmington Police Department.”
Silva grins at his client’s response, probably doing internal backflips that my assurance didn’t have the intended effect. I guess I can’t expect a man like Sawyer Maddox to lose his shit in an interrogation room so damn soon.
“How do you know this woman?” I ask, holding up the same driver’s license photo of Elizabeth Burr that I showed him back at the campground in Colorado hours ago.
“Don’t answer any questions,” Silva advises his client, never taking his eyes off me.
Sawyer Maddox may not like anyone who doesn’t comply or give into his wishes, but he has no problem listening to his attorney.
I ask question after question, and the man never once opens his mouth. He stares at me, his demeanor calm whereas I grow increasingly annoyed.
I want to yell and spew hatred at him for thinking he has any right to hurt another soul, but I can’t. As much as I urged Scott to be professional, it’s something I always strive to do myself.
Colton Matthews taught me well, and I know there’s a time and place to act differently in order to get a suspect to open up and confess their crimes. I can tell that Maddox isn’t going to be one of those men.
The evidence should stand on its own. I shouldn’t have to get a confession. Those get thrown out all the time. It’s the proof that he did what he did that will get him sentenced to prison.
“Where did you get the gas to pour on her genitals after you raped her?”
This makes his jaw flex. I watch his hands that are now handcuffed in front of him rather than at his back the way they were when I first brought him in here.
His fingers flex in his lap, and it sickens me to consider he may be turned on at the thought of how he hurt that poor woman.
His eyes never soften. They glare at me as if he can’t believe he’s been caught.
I return the look.
I’m a great judge of character. I watch people, rate their micro mannerisms, judge everyone I come in contact with. It’s second nature. I’ve been doing it since I was young.
I can’t believe how wrong I was about him, how easily I grinned back at him and followed him to the hotel around the corner from the gym. How I watched his back muscles working under his sweat-damp t-shirt as he paid for the room. How he instructed me to watch his body’s reaction to me as I stripped naked.
Did the same happen to Elle? Was she drawn in by a charismatic, cocky smile? Did she feel safe until the exact moment she wasn’t? Is that how my sister ended up dead? Was I at risk at twenty-six to end up exactly like my sister did fifteen years ago?
My sister’s brutal death led me to become a cop. I wanted to do better, be better, and at a faster pace after what happened so long ago. I want to make a difference. I want to stop killers on their first victim not their second. We were that second family, and I’ve always been bitter about it.