The wail of the sirens gets louder.
He kneels down in front of me. He’s holding my other shoe.
“Wait, what? Where are you going?”
McCarthy turns the headlights on then stands over the crumpled men on the pavement as the cops roll up in their SUVs.
The lady from the car stopped down the road waves manically from under her umbrella.
“That man”—she points at McCarthy—“ran into that car then ran over the driver and his friend. Ran them over like they were squirrels or something, just hit them then backed up. That motorcyclist stopped him.” She waved frantically at me. “I saw the car door open. I think there was an altercation—that’s when I was trying to call you.”
The police officer takes one look at me in McCarthy’s motorcycle gear then McCarthy next to the car. “Can I see some ID, sir?”
No. He’s not supposed to be driving.My heart thuds.
I squeeze Truman as the officer’s partner runs the license.
They come back, batons out. McCarthy puts up his hands.
“Sir, you are in violation of state law by driving with a suspended license. I am placing you under arrest.”
47
MCCARTHY
“Salinger is livid. He’s outside, but Crawford told him he had to sit in his car and count to a thousand before he sees you because we don’t think court’s going to go in your favor if you show up with a broken nose.”
Salinger stalks into the visitor room, where my brothers and I are sitting with a lawyer.
He takes one look at me, swears, then turns around and walks out.
The door slams.
Salinger’s outside, pacing around.
“Dude, you are so fucked.” Faulkner is gleeful. He practically claps his hands when Salinger comes back in the room to chew my ass out.
“You motherfucker. That’s it. I’m fucking done with you. What the fuck were you thinking? You’re lucky that Svetlana’s writing a statement to the policetestifying that Titus was planning to hunt you down and that you were just defending yourself. Seems since the divorce didn’t go through, she gets everything now that her husband’s dead and is very appreciative. But driving a car after you had your license revoked the same night that you dropped a bomb in the middle of Seattle upper society?”
“Those people suck.”
“It’s all over the news, asshole.” Salinger grabs the collar of my orange jumpsuit. “Entitled billionaire, mentally unstable.”
“Some of the papers are calling you hot.” Faulkner snickers.
Salinger slams his hand down on the table in front of our youngest brother, making him jump.
“Your stock is shaky. Senators are up my ass. The legal department and the lobbying departments at your company are in crisis mode.”
“Soon to be my company,” Faulkner chirps.
I buck at him, the handcuffs chaining my hands to the table clinking.
“And you haven’t even so much as apologized,” Salinger snarls.
I shrug.
Salinger grabs the back of my chair, yanking it backward so the cuffs bite into my wrists. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
