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“Alone?” he taunts.
“With a friend.” I rack my brain for someone who’d lie for me. Franck, maybe. I’d hate to do that to him.
Taking a piece of paper from the desk pad, he pushes it toward me. “Care to explain where you got the money from to cover six months’ rent?”
I stare at the termination of lease contract notice in front of me. Double shit. He must’ve spoken to my landlord. “Savings.”
Smiling, he splays his fingers over another piece of paper and slides that one over the desk too.
The blood drains from my head as I scan the print. It’s my bank statement. My regular statement, that is. There’s no arguing the numbers that show my empty savings account or the overdrawn balance of my cheque account. No surprises, my credit card is in the red.
“I didn’t keep all my money in the bank,” I say, meeting Wolfe’s eyes again.
He bangs a fist on the desk. “Bullshit.”
I jump.
He leans closer. His tone is soft, menacing. “Try again.”
My voice doesn’t betray how much I’m shaking. “My father gave me some of the cash from selling the farm.”
“Your father was bankrupt,” Hackman says. “He barely paid off his debts.”
My gaze is drawn to him. They can’t make me admit something I don’t want to. A heap of cash looks suspicious, but it doesn’t prove anything.
“Nick Kruger fired you,” Wolfe says.
I look back at him. “Yes.”
He smiles. “I bet that made you angry.”
Clenching my hands harder, I let the bite of my nails settle me. “Naturally, I was upset.”
“So,” he says, his smile turning into a smirk, “you’re practically broke and unemployed, yet you dug a suitcase full of cash from under your bed where you’ve kept it for all the years after selling the farm while your credit card interest ran through the roof.”
I don’t reply.
Wolfe straightens. “Are you working with the Phantom gang, Ms. Joubert?”
“What?” I give a start. “No!”
That smirk again. “You sure about that?”
“Yes,” I whisper-cry. These aren’t the same old questions from last time. I don’t like the direction this is taking. “I want a lawyer.”
“You don’t,” Wolfe says.
I’m on the edge of my seat, about to jump up and run. “It’s my right. You can’t deny me.”
“You don’t want a lawyer,” he says. “Trust me.”
“Why would I trust you?”
Taking a brown envelope from the desk, he takes out an A4-size paper and places it in front of me. “Because you can’t afford not to.”
I look down and nearly faint. It’s a photo. Of me and Ian. Naked. In the pool.
The world tilts under me. I clutch the armrests, digging my nails into the cracked leather for support.
He dumps another glossy, color image in front of me. Ian is touching me, supporting my neck while he makes me come. My naked body is splayed over the photo, spread in the water. It leaves nothing to the imagination.
I feel sick.
Photo after photo, he dumps them on the desk. Ian sitting on the steps with me knelt between his legs and my lips around him. Ian’s mouth on me.
I don’t turn the images over. I don’t look away from them. I inhale the stale air of chalk and dust and notice the wrinkled apple on the corner of the desk next to a mug with a coffee ring around the rim. Everything imprints in stark detail on my mind, yet my ability to think has shut down. I’m mentally paralyzed, unable to come up with a single explanation or excuse.
Wolfe pushes a finger on the pictures that expose Ian and my intimacy for the whole world to see. “Explain that.”
Biting my lip, I give him silence.
He slams the last photo down, his palm covering half of the image. Ian inside me. “Did he force you?”
“No,” I cry out.
“Then explain that,” he yells, stabbing his finger on the photo.
Everything on the desk rattles, even Hackman.
Tears blur my vision as I slowly look back at him and whisper, “I can’t.”
Clenching his fists, he pulls his back straight. “Let me tell you how this looks. Coincidentally, you’re at Sun City when the casino’s biggest heist in history takes place. One of the robbers kidnaps you, yet he lets you go without a scratch on your body. One month from being declared bankrupt, you pay up your rent for half a year. Then you spend the night fucking said robber at a holiday resort.”
I motion at the photos. “That could be anyone.”
He laughs. “The cabin was a forensic paradise. We’ve got semen, hair, and skin samples.”
Some of my reasoning power returns. They’ve been watching us. They must’ve been following me. “Why didn’t you arrest us?” They have the blood from the crime scene, but they don’t know Ian’s identity. Or rather, they didn’t. My stomach twists with nerves. Now they have a face.
“Ian Hart,” Wolfe says, putting another image down on the desk.
