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Before I can react, his arm shoots out, grabbing the end of the collar that hangs over my dress. I’m so used to that being there, that I didn’t think about it. I didn’t even think to zip my hoodie up to hide it.
“Syn, let go,” I tell him, as he pulls it just enough to tighten against my throat.
“You’re not the only one wearing one of these.” His gaze drifts from the metal in his hands, following the chain to my neck, then up to meet my eyes. “The only difference is that yours is visible.”
“Syn, please let go.”
He tilts his head. “Do you regret coming here, Victoria Reynalds? Did you get the answers you were looking for? Did you find the evidence to prove your brother is innocent?” Syn isn’t pulling the chain hard enough to choke me, but there’s enough pressure on my throat to feel the point he’s making. “Are you ready to accept that your brother is just another cold-blooded killer?”
Maybe I am the idiot Syn thinks I am, because instead of just agreeing, I shake my head. “Cole didn’t kill anyone.”
Syn’s eyes narrow. “Even now, you still blindly believe that? When there isn’t a shred of evidence to prove otherwise?”
Anger bubbles inside of me. “I might not have all the answers, but I do have one,” I tell him. It has to be the alcohol that’s clouding my judgement, and my ability to bite my tongue. “Because all this time, I’ve been wondering how you could just believe that he’s guilty, when it turns out, you don’t question anyone. You just blindly follow orders. Did you ever ask?”
“Ask what?” The chain tightens a fraction. “Ask if he was guilty? Doubt your brothers own words?”
“Ask how? Why? For the details?”
“Why the fuck would I want the details?” In one quick movement, Syn wraps the chain around his fist, jerking me forward.
I squeal, stumbling towards him, my hands wrapping around Syn’s to both stop me from falling, but also to try to stop him from pulling.
“You think I want to know exactly how much pain my brother was in when he was killed? If that blow was enough to kill him outright, or if he lay there, praying for help, in pain, before finally dying? Pain might be your kink, but I’m not a fucking masochist.”
“No,” I gasp. “But all those details aren’t even there. There wasn’t even a murder weapon. The only reason my brother is in prison is because he confessed, but if he’d have kept quiet, there would have been so little evidence that a jury would never have been able to convict him.”
Syn seems to freeze, and the silence is almost as terrifying as the glare he’s giving me. The chain around my neck doesn’t loosen and black dots are starting to dance over my vision. Before I can pass out, I bring my knee up, straight into his balls. Instantly, Syn lets go of me, crying out in pain as he clutches his hands over his crotch.
I stumble back, out of his reach, only to walk into my desk. “Maybe it’s time you started asking questions, Syn, starting with what JP did to deserve to die. Because Cole has never been able to say why he did it, and from everything you’ve said, it’s starting to sound more like someone else killed JP, and then framed my brother to get away with it.”
“You think my brother deserved to die?”
That wasn’t what I meant, but Syn’s face is growing redder and his breathing shallower, and I don’t think it’s from the pain. He straightens, fists clenched.
I know that I’ve only got a second and that’s not enough time to explain what I mean—even if he were to listen—but it’s not fear that drives me. It’s anger.
In one fluid motion, I reach out, grab the half-full bottle of Japanese whiskey, and then spin with enough force to make Syn stumble as the bottle hits him, but not quite enough to smash it over him.
Whiskey drips everywhere as I stare down at Syn, clutching his head. “Maybe that will knock some fucking sense into you. No, I don’t think your brother deserved to die. But it’s time you started asking some fucking questions, because if you did, you’d see that nothing adds up.”
Dropping the bottle, I turn, storm out of the room, and down the stairs. It’s only when I’m at the bottom and my anger breaks just enough for me to realize what I’ve just done. Although he’s probably in pain, and at best, a little stunned, I doubt I’ve done enough to stop Syn from chasing after me. Not physically, at least. At the bottom of the stairs, I pause long enough to stick my feet into a pair of Royal’s running shoes, then I leave.
Syn doesn’t follow.
With any luck, he’s finally listening to what I’ve said.
XXXIX
Syn
Cold air batters my face to the point I can barely feel it. Despite the low temperatures outside, I’ve driven the whole journey with the heat up and the windows down, hoping fresh air will clear my mind.
My head hurts.
Maybe from a hangover, but as it’s my left temple that’s now sporting a purple and black lump, it’s more likely from where Tori smacked me in the head with that damn bottle. There’s a lingering ache in my balls too.
It’s not very often that I’m so unaware of what’s happening that I allow an attack like that to happen, but I’ll begrudgingly acknowledge that in that moment, Tori got one over on me.
