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“No, thank you. We won’t take much of your time, Mr. Montgomery,” Banning says, pulling out a notepad and taking a seat. “We just have a few questions for you. Do you know this young woman here?” He points at me, then adds, “Miss Sophie Wright.”
Alan’s gaze brushes over me again, frighteningly blank and innocent. “No, I don’t believe I do.” His brows pull together in a sympathetic look. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve been through a lot.”
My jaw clenches so hard it aches. I want to scream, to lunge at the man as he settles onto his plush couch. I want to claw and tear at him until he admits that yes, he does fucking know me. He knew me a decade ago when I was a little girl, his captive. And he saw me less than twelve hours ago in a bunker, when he had me tied to a chair and was threatening my life.
I have been through a lot, and he knows it.
“Is there a problem?” Alan continues, looking at Banning when I don’t answer his question. “What’s this all about?”
Declan tenses next to me, as if he’s ready to lunge too. For a second, I almost wish he would. It’s torture to be sitting across from a man I know is guilty, hearing him speak to the police in a polite and polished tone, as if he’s nothing more than a concerned, upstanding citizen.
He’s a psychopath. A monster.
I want the whole world to see that.
But they don’t. Not yet, anyway. And if Declan attacks him before we get solid proof that he kept me captive, it’ll be me and the Sinners who pay for Alan’s crimes. We’ll look like the guilty ones.
Detective
Banning looks like he’s seriously regretting letting Gray push him into coming here. He shoots Alan an apologetic look. “We’re very sorry to bother you, but Miss Wright claims she was attacked last night, and we need to ask you a few questions. This will only take a second. Do you mind if we get your answers on record?”
“Absolutely,” Alan answers without hesitation.
“Where were you last night?” Banning asks.
Alan purses his lips. “Last night, I spent the evening with my son. My wife died several years ago, so it’s just the two of us. We barbequed and then went out on the yacht to watch the sunset.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Jesus fucking Christ. Even his alibi makes him sound like a privileged douchebag.
“How late were you out on the yacht?”
“Oh, eleven or so.”
I grit my teeth. Assuming Cliff will back him up, Alan has covered his tracks for the period of time the guys and I were out in the woods, when Reagan managed to knock me out and drag me to the bunker.
And I have no fucking reason to believe that Cliff won’t have his back. He’s a fucking asshole, just like his dad.
“Did you go anywhere after that?” the detective continues.
“I showered and went to bed.”
“What about this morning?”
“I usually wake up around six,” Alan explains. “I showered and came down to make breakfast since my cook has the day off. Then I headed in to the office. I got back home around three and went for a swim. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
He gestures to his damp hair and casual athletic clothes, as if apologizing for not greeting us in a three-piece suit.
Banning nods, jotting a few notes down. “Do you own any property other than your estate here?”
“You may know that I own many real estate properties for investment reasons.” Alan rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward a little. “But at the moment, this house and my Palm Beach residence are the only ones that are used by me and my family.”
“What about properties used for business?”
“Again,” Alan says, a slight undercurrent of annoyance entering his voice, “my investment properties would be considered my business properties, as well as my offices in Orange County. If you would like a list of those real estate properties, I can direct you to one of my managers.”
“No, that’s fine,” the officer says almost apologetically. “One last question about property. Do you own any property around the Lamar Foothills?”
Alan’s brows pull together again, and he looks thoroughly confused by the question.
