I shake off his hold on me. “Of course.”
But that bastard has received his last complaint.
“Wait, did you say the guy you’ve been pumping for information was a Harrington?” Brennan demands. At my assent, he continues, “His son was found dead in a Mt. Palisades’ country club on Friday night.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “That’s the fucker she killed.”
“Hello? This is Rachel Laker speaking.”
THIRTY
HAVE A LITTLE FAITH
The desire tofocus on the clock has me in a thrall.
It’s one I’ve had to fight. Repeatedly.
This is a game I’m playing to win, and watching the slow passage of time slip through my fingers could be what breaks me.
I refuse to break.
It doesn’t help that Rachel seems to take a lifetime to turn up at the precinct.
But she lives in West Orange and had a ways to travel—it’s not like teleporting’s a thing.
Logic doesn’t seem to matter much in this place.
Primarily, it’s fear talking.
Fear that I fucked up.
Fear that I trusted Maxim when I shouldn’t have.
A part of me mulls over why I didn’t call Brennan or Eoghan. Even the O’Donnellys’ psychotic matriarch, Lena, would have had my back and I wouldn’t be worrying about my lawyer showing up.
And as I hate myself for doubting him, my brain won’t let me stop.
I think back to those times when we were together, alone. Where he showed me a side of himself that I know few have ever witnessed before.
Hell, maybe no one.
I can’t imagine him letting his guard down for anybody else, and here I am, not trusting him.
Though Niven brought me back to the same interrogation room, that he changed my position is appreciated—I’m nolonger twisted, one shoulder pushed forward, wrists cuffed so tightly that I’m pretty sure the marks will remain for days.
I try to sleep to kill time, but I’m awake when the door creaks open. I simply don’t waste my energy lifting my head.
Wallowicz has been in to visit once or twice, some packets of saltines with him, a bottle of water.
They remain untouched.
I’m not a psyop soldier, for God’s sake, but I can’t help but question if they’re tainted. Then there’s the fact that they removed the bucket while I was in the restroom.
“Victoria?”
The voice is sharp and distinctly female, so I glance up then jerk back as relief floods me. It’s less to do with my current situation and more to do with Maxim—I can believe in him. God, that more anything makes me want to weep.
So, of course, I lock that down straight away.
