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No doubt Damian has inside connections in Joburg. It will definitely play in my favor to be somewhere I have people on my side. I have no illusions about how cop killers are treated in prison.
“I’m afraid that’s the best I can do,” he says in a dry tone.
It was more than I expected. Damian didn’t have to send his lawyer. He could’ve left me here to rot.
Peters folds his hands on the table. “Let’s start with what to expect from the prosecutor.”
“When will the trial go to court?”
“Very soon. The sentence hearing may happen as early as next week.” He removes his glasses and cleans them with a handkerchief he takes from his pocket. “The case is too high profile to let it drag out. You’re gaining media popularity by the day. The State will want to kill the buzz as quickly as they can.”
“What do you need from me?”
“Play nice. Say you regret the murders. Your gang members can be passed as acts of passion for whatever anger you experienced at those incontrollable moments, but Detective Wolfe’s murder was premeditated. Act tormented. The public always likes a tormented soul.”
“I’m not acting for anyone’s benefit. They’ll get the truth. I’m not sorry for ripping Ruben’s throat out, and I’m even less sorry for putting a bullet in Wolfe’s brain.”
Nobody tries to harm Cas and get away with it. I’ll be damned before I betray my feelings and lie to the world about what I feel for her. I’m not making out as if those feelings are meaningless for the benefit of a private cell and a laptop. Fuck that. Nothing in the world is enough to make me lie about what she means to me.
He pulls his mouth into a thin line. “If you won’t play the game, I can’t—”
“No fucking games.”
“Fine.” He picks up a pen and unscrews the cap. “It’s your life.”
Damn right.
It just so happens I love Cas more than my own life.
Chapter 18
Cas
The knock I expect falls on the door of my hotel room the following morning. With a palm, I iron the creases form my T-shirt in which I’ve spent a sleepless night. My hand trembles when I drag it over my head to tame my hair. The shaking isn’t only from nerves. Not having an appetite, I haven’t eaten dinner or breakfast. My body is telling me it needs fuel.
“Who is it?” I ask as I peer through the peephole, anxiety tightening my stomach.
A man with russet hair and square features looks me straight in the eye. “Russell Roux. Damian sent me.”
Blowing out a tremulous breath, I unlock the door and pull it open on his tall, broad frame. The dark suit doesn’t hide the muscles under the fabric. He looks like a mercenary or body builder.
His tone is friendly. “May I come in?”
I open the door wider and step aside. “Sure.”
He steps over the threshold, doing a quick evaluation of the room. I wait quietly as he goes around, checking the furniture, lamps, and ventilation holes. Finally, he unscrews both ends of the receiver part of the telephone.
“Bugs,” he says, flashing me a smile as he puts everything back together. Straightening from his crouched position next to the nightstand, he takes an envelope from his pocket and hands it to me. “It’s a keycard to an apartment Damian secured for you. You can rest there for a couple of days while we arrange to get you out of the country. There are too many eyes on Damian to take you to his home.”
I give him the same speech I gave Damian and Detective Hackman. “I’m not leaving Ian.”
“Ian is going to jail.” He adds with a sympathetic light in his whiskey-colored eyes, “Damian got the best lawyer in the country on the case, but there’s a good chance Ian won’t be allowed visitation rights, not with his track record.”
Clutching my necklace, I stumble a step back. The ridges of the Nyaminyami press into my palm as the blow Russell delivered settles. “They can’t do that.”
“They can deny him visitors, and believe me, they will.”
“You don’t know that,” I say in an unstable voice.
“Damian is intimately familiar with the system. It’s safe to say he talks from experience.”
“No.” I give him a hard look. “You can’t guarantee that’s what will happen.”
“I’m not saying this to hurt you. I’m telling you there’s no point in hanging around.”
If what this stranger says is true, I’ll never see Ian again. The last time I saw him would forever be on his knees with his hands behind his head, forced to surrender like a magnificent, wild animal caught and chained.
“You have to think of yourself,” he says. “That’s what Ian would want.”
What Ian would want. What about me? I don’t want this for Ian. I never did. This is why I ran away in the first place. I didn’t want to rat on Ian and get him caught. Yet I did exactly that. I slowed him down. The same phrase runs over and over in my head.
