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“And then this heroine ran away.”
“She saw an opportunity and took it.”
“Smart heroine. Well, in this sort of situation, I think this woman has to consider her three options.”
“Three,” I repeated. “I only came up with one.”
“Going to the proper authorities is an option. But, again, a risky one in a way, considering all the pieces at play in this story. Option two would be for her to take a train or bus out of town immediately, not even stopping at home to pick up her things. And never looking back. Someday down the line, she would probably want to change her name too.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling like the world was pressing down on my shoulders. Could I just disappear? I had friends. I had a life. I’d worked really hard for both those things. I didn’t want to give them up.
Even if I decided I could, how could I afford to get out of town without grabbing some of my things? I had no money. I didn’t have my purse with my cards or my cell phone. I had nothing. I couldn’t get very far without money or identification.
And then, what? Be someone else? Lie to everyone I ever met for the rest of my life? How could I build a life like that, make friends like that, have a trusted partner like that?
Sure, it was an option, but I felt like it was my last one.
If there was anything else to go with, I was going to choose that.
“Okay. That’s only two,” I said, looking at the detective with his calm, yet serious eyes. “What is the third option for this woman in this story?” I asked, my stomach twisting itself in a knot. There was no way of knowing if it was the fear, the anticipation of a solution to my problem, or the really horrendous coffee.
“Well, the third option would take a lot of ball—guts,” he corrected, looking a little sheepish at the near-slip in professionalism.
“Let’s say she thinks she has the balls,” I said, giving him a wobbly smile.
“Well, if she is strong enough, the third option is for her to walk back into that place of work,” he said, waving a hand out as if to say ‘whatever that is,’ “and act like nothing at all happened.”
“What? Why would she do that?” I hissed, leaning forward. “That makes no sense.”
“No, I like it,” the detective at the desk beside Detective Hart’s said, nodding at us.
He was a bit younger than Hart, but tall and handsome as well.
“Why’s that?” I asked. “I like having input from many sources when it comes to my stories,” I added, giving him an encouraging nod, then turning to Detective Hart, giving him a silent “thank you” with my eyes, since he clearly knew what he was doing when he made me pretend not to say all of this craziness happened to me. The walls had eyes and ears in this place, apparently.
“Because if she walks back into that office or whatever like nothing happened, she gains the power. He knows that she knows, but he has no fucking idea why she is back. And that mystery gives her power.”
“Exactly,” Detective Hart agreed, nodding.
“But… but what is to stop him from taking her again?”
To that, the other detective, who—judging by the plaque on his desk—was named Carver, smirked. “Blackmail.”
“What? Blackmail? This heroine is not supposed to go to the police, but she is supposed to blackmail a member of the mafia?”
“Men like this, they respond to things that are familiar to them. They can understand blackmail because they do it,” Detective Carver explained.
“And from the sound of this guy in your story, he doesn’t want to have to take this heroine again. He wants an answer to the situation. Her blackmailing him gives him something to work with. He agrees to whatever she asks for, and in turn, he gets her silence. It solves his problems without getting his hands dirty again.”
“I like it,” Detective Carver agreed. “Whenever this book is out, I’ll buy a copy. Maybe I can get you to sign it for me,” he added, giving me a devilish little smile that said he would like me to pick it up from his bedside table and sign it while still in bed with him. “Hey, babe, where the fuck are your shoes?” he asked suddenly, looking down at my feet with drawn-together brows, making my own gaze shoot down.
They weren’t bloody, thank God. But they were blackened a bit from the pavement as I ran from Matteo Grassi’s basement right to the police station.
“Oh, ha, yeah,” I said, forcing out a weird laugh. “I went to a concert tonight,” I said, waving down at my outfit. “And my stupid ass decided to wear skyscrapers on my feet. They were killing me. I slipped them off. And I forgot to put them back on when I decided to stop in here,” I explained, which seemed to placate him.
