Page 24 of The Accident

I didn’t ask why. I didn’t need to. I could guess: some kind of fight. A commotion, a disturbance, the neighbors called the police, and Kayleigh was caught in the slipstream. My stepsister has always been a mess, but last night, things took a turn for the insane. If it was a game, I needed in.

Now, I’m three blocks from the jail, and my hands are shaking. Not from fear. From anticipation.

I pull into the lot, kill the engine, and sit for a moment, staring at my reflection in the window. The man looking back is all sharp lines and predator focus, the stubble along my jaw more silver than I remember. My eyes are bloodshot. My mouth is a thin, hard line. I look like someone who’s spent all night hunting, stalking his prey.

Inside, the lobby is a strip-lit cave: taupe cinderblocks, a row of plastic chairs, a vending machine that hums at a frequency designed to irritate the soul. The front desk smells like cheap coffee and Clorox. There’s an old radio hissing low behind the bulletproof glass. The only other people in the room are a junkie sleeping open-mouthed on a bench and a cop who looks up when I step in, recognizes me, and immediately straightens.

I’m a Cahill. We’re known about these parts, what with my dad being a prominent developer and my own fortune made from AI. You can see it in the way the staff go rigid, the way they start saying “sir” without even thinking. I could probably set the building on fire and they’d thank me for the publicity.

I take a number and wait, but it’s pointless. A woman in a blue blouse appears in less than a minute, blinking at her tablet and smoothing her hair. “Mr. Cahill? Right this way.”

Her badge reads SANDERS. She’s pretty, but in a completely forgettable way. She leads me past the security doors and into a warren of hallways, talking as she walks.

“Your stepsister’s in holding, but it’s not a serious charge. A little altercation at a party, she’s not listed as the primary aggressor. There’s a friend—Stella Moreland—in the next cell. The report says your stepsister was a bystander. Probably just in the wrong place.”

I nod, not listening. My mind is still on the photos, the four-shot spread of Kayleigh’s cunt, the look on her face as she teased me through the lens. I remember the last time I saw her in person—at the wedding, all pink dress and soft cleavage, the way she blushed and looked away when I caught her eye. She was a good girl, or pretended to be, but the truth was right there on the screen: my stepsister’s a slut who needs hard cock in her pussy, and I’m just the man to give it to her.

We stop outside a metal door with a dirty window. The sergeant knocks once and pushes it open.

Kayleigh sits on a steel bench, hands in her lap, legs pressed together, body hunched in on itself. She wears a tight pink dress, wrinkled and stained at the hem. Her hair is a frizzy halo, the makeup around her eyes smudged gray, cheeks splotchy and raw. She looks like she hasn’t slept, and she hasn’t. But even wrecked, she’s gorgeous. Maybe more so because I want to wreck her too.

She looks up at me, and for a second, her eyes go wide: that limpid, innocent blue that makes my heart twinge, even in these sordid circumstances.

I nod at Sanders. “Give us a minute, please.”

The woman leaves, the door hissing shut behind her. We’re alone.

For a long moment, we just stare at each other. Kayleigh bites her lower lip. Her hands twist in her lap.

I break the silence.

“Get up,” I say, voice low and even.

She stands. She’s shivering.

“Let’s go,” I add. She follows, head down, trailing just behind me as I lead her out. She’s so obedient I almost laugh.

In the hallway, I pause and look at her.

“You okay?” I say, not really asking.

She nods, but her lips quiver. I see a fleck of mascara at the corner of her eye. I reach out and wipe it away, and she flinches, but doesn’t pull back.

After some paperwork, we walk to the car in silence. The world is awake now, the streets lined with traffic and joggers and moms pushing strollers. The morning is ordinary, but I feel like a criminal. Like we’ve committed a murder and are just waiting for the knock at the door.

I unlock the Mercedes and hold the passenger side open for her. She climbs in, careful not to flash her panties to the neighborhood, but I see anyway: pale lace, wispy and feminine.

I circle to the driver’s side and get in, the leather cold against my skin. For a long time, neither of us speaks.

Then I look over, and Kayleigh’s crying. Not sobbing, just tears leaking down her cheeks, silent and relentless. She looks beautiful, like the Virgin Mary, but of course, this is no virgin. This woman is a horny slut, and I intend to avail myself of the pleasure her curves will bring.

But not right now. I should say something. I should comfort her. But I’m an asshole, so I don’t.

We drive two blocks before I say, flatly: “What the fuck happened last night?”

Kayleigh keeps her eyes straight ahead. Her hands are a twist of knuckles on her lap.

“I don’t know. It was a party. There was a fight. Someone called the cops. I didn’t do anything.”