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Chapter 37
Fox
“Ahunting accident?”
I nod at Detective Lawrence across the interrogation room table. “Yes, sir,” I answer.
He leans back in his chair and scoffs, making the little hairs of his beige mustache fidget back and forth above his lip. “You expect me to believe that Roxie Roberts willingly traveled halfway across the country with you... to go hunting?”
“There’s more to it, but yeah. She did.”
“And then you, an experienced veteran of the armed forces, accidentally shot her in the shoulder?”
I look down. “Not my proudest moment, Detective, but yes. That’s what happened.”
He blinks twice, his face hard as stone. “Do you think I’m an idiot?” he asks.
“No, sir.”
“You realize how crazy this sounds, right?”
I turn up my hands. “If you don’t believe me, ask her yourself.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he says. “We fully intend to as soon as she wakes up, and you’re not leaving this room until then. In the meantime, I’m curious about why you’re here at all, Fox Fitzpatrick. Aren’t you supposed to be dead? Just where the hell have you been the last two years?”
I shift in my chair as that stick of dynamite officially burns through my pocket and singes my skin.
I clear my throat. “Well, Detective—”
The door behind me opens quickly.
“Fox, don’t say another word.”
I turn in surprise. Boxcar rushes into the interrogation room with a briefcase in his hand. He wears an old, wrinkled suit and a disheveled tie, but at least he bothered to comb his hair.
Detective Lawrence sneers. “Who the hell are you?”
Boxcar slams his briefcase down on the table. “I’m Mr. Fitzpatrick’s Constitutionally-required representation and I’m demanding that you either charge him with a crime or you release him immediately.”
I stare at him. “Box, what—”
He snaps his fingers at me. “Not another word,” he says, clearly enjoying his charade.
“He’s not going anywhere,” Lawrence says. “I still have questions and we can’t corroborate his story until I talk to the girl first.”
“Well, luckily for you, I already have. As of—” he checks his watch, “twenty-three minutes ago, Ms. Roberts is awake and lucid, and she provided me with this statement.” He withdraws a piece of paper from his briefcase and lays it on the table in front of Lawrence. “Too long; didn’t read: she and Mr. Fitzpatrick spirited themselves away on a taboo and romantic getaway—”
“Box,” I say.
He raises his hand again, silencing me. “This led them here to Fox’s current residence where Ms. Roberts coaxed him into a hunting demonstration that went horribly, horribly wrong. City girls, am I right?”
Lawrence says nothing.
Boxcar clears his throat. “I also have a statement from Mrs. Barbara Clark, Fox’s landlord and owner of the land where this event took place. It matches this story to a T.”
“The girl’s awake?” Lawrence asks.
“And lucid. Keep up, Detective.” He snaps his fingers again and Lawrence squints. “Seeing as this entire situation was one great big misunderstanding…” he smirks, “it would be super great if you’d let my client go now, please.”
