Page 17 of Cruel Shame

“Thanks.” I placed my hand on his muscular thigh and let my heavy eyelids close.

I wasn’t sure how much time passed between falling asleep and being woken by coaxing words and a gentle hand.

“Ken just said the police are ready to see you,” Orlando murmured into my ear.

My eyes snapped open. I pulled myself off his warm chest and stared into his hazel eyes. With the street lights drifting in through the limo’s darkened window, his irises looked like warm caramel.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” I murmured.

Orlando kissed the tip of my nose. “It was my pleasure. I hope it goes well inside.”

My stomach tightened at the loss of his presence. Part of me wanted to ask Orlando to sit next to me, but I shook off that thought. Last September, I’d been brazen enough to call the police after stabbing Sammy and exposing his hydroponic weed farm. I hadn’t done anything wrong this time, so I could face the police. Besides, they only allowed guardians or solicitors in the interview rooms.

Maxwell and Kendrick escorted me into the now empty station, and a layer of tension rose from my shoulders at the absence of that noisy crowd. The pounding in my head receded to a dull pulse, giving me the strength to face what was probably going to be a hostile officer desperate to protect the Liddells.

The receptionist, a mousy-haired woman with a bowl cut, raised her head and buzzed me through a side door. I stood at the open entrance, glancing from one twin to the other.

“I appreciate this,” I murmured. “Both of you.”

Kendrick nodded. “While we were waiting, I made a list of the most vocal students on twitter. If we can let enough people know that these allegations are a distraction from Lady Liddell’s criminal activity, the police might decide to drop the charges.”

Maxwell leaned down and gave me a gentle kiss on the lips. “We’ll wait for you”

I wrapped my arms around his neck and clung onto him as though it might be our last time. Maxwell hugged back, his masculine scent filling my nostrils. By now, Elizabeth and her mouth could have elaborated on their lies and implicated me in this mess. I could be walking into an arrest.

“Miss Delilah Hancock?” asked an impatient female voice.

I released the embrace and turned to find a female police officer with jet-black hair tied back in a bun. Her strong features gave her the look of a young Paloma Picasso but without the dramatic makeup.

“This way.” She turned on her heel and continued down a magnolia-colored hallway.

After a whispered goodbye, I followed her. We rounded the corner, passing signs that lead to the custody suite, and walked past the interview rooms.

The police woman opened the door to the coziest interview room I’d ever seen. It had the same drab walls and tiled ceiling, but consisted of two IKEA sofas arranged around a low table. At the back was a tinted glass wall that I could bet my life concealed a camera.

My lips pursed into a thin line. This wasn’t where they put the suspects or even the witnesses. This must be a special room for victims of crime. I turned around with a protest on my lips, but Detective Chief Inspector Cromar stepped behind the police woman.

“Thank you, WPC Pala.” He placed a thin hand on her shoulder and fixed me with a predatory stare. “I’ll question Miss Hancock.”

Chapter Eight

Constable Pala glanced from me to the Detective Chief Inspector, her brows drawing together. My shoulders drooped. Even if the woman suspected her superior officer was a creep, she couldn’t help me. Nor could she turn to another officer and ask. Constables were the lowest ranks in the police force, and DCI Cromar was three levels above her.

“What are you doing here?” I snapped.

Cromar’s brows drew together. “I understand you’re upset about recent revelations.” He gave the female constable a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Please bring two cups of tea and a plate of chocolate digestives.”

I clenched my teeth. Everyone I knew who’d been arrested for something or other and not once did we get luxury snacks, not even the time I led them to Billy Hancock’s cocaine haul.

DCI Cromar ushered me inside and took the seat facing away from the glass wall. I resisted the urge to plonk myself on the sofa next to him. The benefits of pissing him off outweighed the cost of inhaling his musty, rank sweater.

I perched myself on the edge of the opposite seat and folded my bandaged hands on my lap.

His gaze dropped to the bandages. “What a trying day you’ve had. Myra Highmore attacking you with a gun, followed by the revelation of your father’s horrific abuse.”

“Mr. Burgh is my grandfather,” I snapped. “And he didn’t abuse anyone.”

The detective chief inspector made a see-sawing motion with his hand. It’s obvious what that fucking meant. You say potato and I say potahto—that I could call Mr. Burgh a grandfather all I wanted but there was enough evidence to prove that we were much closer related.