Gideon pulls back immediately, hands in the air like he’s innocent. Like I imagined all of it.
The flashlight beam moves over my face, blinding me.
“Oh,Jesus—Sadie?”
He catches me the moment my knees buckle and my vision fades to black.
Everythingisfuzzy.
Lights blur and streak every time I blink. A siren wails far away—or maybe it’s all a hallucination inside my head.
The metal bench beneath me is cold and unforgiving. Someone presses a paper cup of water into my hand—I think. My fingers tremble as I try to hold it steady.
Voices buzz just out of reach—urgent, low.
“Not Rohypnol?” I catch one ask. Another voice grunts, “Cross hasn’t learned his lesson yet? Don’t shit where you eat.” Somewhere, another mutters, “…going after Becker’s daughter.Yeesh.”
I want to tune it out, but it clings to me like the fog in my head.
I try to sit up straight, to look strong, but my limbs are too heavy, disconnected.
The words in my mouth feel like someone else’s as I give my statement. Parts of it make sense, parts are jumbled fragments.
I can’t remember if I cried.
Time slips away. Seconds and hours blur together in a restless tide.
Then the door clanks open again. The young cop from the party steps in, his face grim.
“He’s here.” The words hit like a punch to the gut. I slump against the wall, the cold biting through my skin.
As if this night couldn’t get any worse.
I try for a tight smile as he slides open the door to my cell, following him out as he leads me down the long hallway to the waiting room. I keep my head down, focusing on my strappy shoes dangling from my fingers, avoiding eye contact with anyone else in holding.
When I’m buzzed through the steel door, I don’t see Warren Becker—the ruthless criminal defense attorney. No, when I look at the man sitting in the stiff waiting room chair, in his expensive suit, furrowed brow staring down at his phone—all I see is my father.
He exhales slowly before looking up. His eyes flick over me, and he mutters something under his breath, handing me my clutch.
I know better than to say anything, so I don’t, silently taking it from his hands.
His entire life is about perception. He’s holding it in, fuming beneath the mask of calm.
I hold my breath, bracing for the inevitable explosion—and almost wince when he opens his mouth. But it’s not the eruption of anger I was expecting.
“Thank you, gentlemen. Have a good weekend and stay safe,” he says, turning slightly to give a polite wave. His lips press into a firm line as he guides me toward the exit.
I don’t want to go home, but I don’t want to have a sleepover at the station either.
The walk to the car is short, and Warren’s personal driver holds the door open for us.
Silence with my father is never just silence. It’s the kind of quiet that hangs thickly in the air, tightening around you like a snake until the pressure becomes so unbearable you have no choice but to break it before it swallows you whole.
He doesn’t say a word to me the entire drive home. His eyes stay locked onto his phone as he types away, likely working on a case.The Gideon Cross case.
As if on cue, the throbbing pain in my head flares. I probably have a concussion. A little souvenir from my trip to the Predator’s Palace.
I drop my head back on the headrest and wince.
