Page 5 of Cruel Hearts

“What are you in for again?” I said, trying to sound interested.

“My stepfather put me on the game.” She shook her head. “Do you live with yours?”

I pursed my lips. Nice way to change the subject and get her talking about Billy Hancock. “No, I’m at a boarding school.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, right. You said.”

She tried chatting about her rich clients and how the wealthy deserved to be robbed, but I closed my eyes and tuned her out. Maybe she had run out of things to ask.

The door opened. “Kitty Bordel?” said the policewoman. “Your brief has arrived.”

She stood and teetered to the door on shiny, new stilettos. “Good luck.”

“Yeah.” I gave her a nod. “Don’t let your stepfather prostitute you. Mine’s an utter bastard.”

A mix of disappointment and frustration flickered across her features. Maybe the next undercover cop they sent in would fare better.

My gaze flicked to the clock. The police could only hold me for thirty-six hours before having to let me go. I wasn’t sure if the timer started at the moment of arrest or if it started after they’d signed me in. Shit. I clenched my fists. Why hadn’t I researched this better?

I lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling. Elizabeth had probably spent all that time away from the academy planning my downfall. Who else but her would have contacted Sammy and Billy to ambush me at the fashion show? Mother must have known about the gangsters’ trip to Glasgow. Why hadn’t she warned me? I would have dropped out of the fashion show if I’d known it was a trap.

The lights turned out, and I closed my eyes, trying to will myself to sleep. It wasn’t like I had any other options.

That night, every dream featured dogs. Dogs pinning me to the bed and ripping out my throat, dogs leaping up at my dangling body, dogs chasing me out of my dream. I jolted awake in a cold sweat, my heart clattering, my damp eyes staring into the dark. Thanks to that bunch of bastards, I now had a slew of fresh, traumatic memories to add to the old.

Hours later, keys jangled outside and the door swung open. A female officer poked her head inside. “Delilah Hancock?” She held a tray containing a mug of tea and a stack of toast in both hands with what looked like my school uniform wedged under an arm. “Your solicitor and guardian have arrived.”

“Thanks.” Let’s hope this person was better than the mute assigned to me in Richley.

I pulled on my uniform, leaving the tea and toast untouched. The trepidation roiling in my stomach wouldn’t allow me to keep anything down for long. Sucking in a deep breath, I placed my hands on my belly and closed my eyes. If I could get away with stabbing a man with my fingerprints all over the weapon and his blood on my clothes, I would leave here exonerated of all accusations. This time, I was completely innocent.

Ten minutes later, the policewoman walked me out of the custody suite, through a set of heavy, metal doors and into the same suite of interview rooms as the night before. She paused at one of the doors and gestured at me to enter. “They’re waiting for you inside.”

“Thanks.”

I stood at the door, my heart dropping at the furious, sapphire-blue eyes of Mr. Burgh.

Chapter 3

Mr. Burgh stood. My stomach fluttered, and I squirmed under his glower. It was an electric-blue mix of disappointment and fury. The kind of look a teacher would make after seeing their favorite student get themselves into trouble.

Except this was worse.

From a certain angle, all the facts pointed toward my guilt—the cocaine-dealing stepfather, my own cannabis-growing past, and the lewd acts I’d committed with Maxwell Orlando. Not to mention Mother’s scandalous past. The old man probably thought he’d brought in a trojan horse by rescuing me from my enemies in Richley.

The walk across the interview room felt like a death-march as each heavy footstep brought me closer to his wrath. And closer to the assessing eyes of Detective Chief Inspector Cromar. He wore the same Aran sweater from the day before, and I suppressed the urge to curl my lip.

Next to Mr. Burgh sat a prim-looking woman in her thirties who looked a cut above the usual duty solicitor. She wore a tailored, tweed-suit with pearl earrings and her hair swept up in a tight, Professor McGonagall-style bun. The book version, not the one played by Maggie Smith.

“For the purposes of the interview, Delilah Hancock has walked in with Detective Constable McPhie,” said DCI Cromar.

Holding back the desire to blow a raspberry into the recording, I sat next to Mr. Burgh and stared at my hands. The heat of his anger burned the side of my face like a pair of lasers.

All my words, all my excuses, all my explanations died in my throat. What was I going to say to my grandfather and headmaster? That it wasn’t me? A soft snort huffed out of my nostrils. Trite words uttered by nearly everyone who ever got arrested.

“You find this funny?” Mr. Burgh’s voice was as hard as steel.

My heart sank. That would teach me to wallow in self-pity. “No, sir.”