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MELLIE
It’s so much easier to get to work now that I live at Niall’s. This has been the best week of my life. It’s only a ten-minute walk to Oracle from here, and he insists I take the SUV home at night.
Niall had someerrandsto run, so he has taken the SUV today. We need a few things, so I decide to walk to the grocery store. The walk is much nicer than in Southie. For one thing, the grocery store is closer.
I only get halfway there when a uniformed police officer holds up his hand to bring me to a halt.
“Amelia Rogan?” he asks, and I double-take. How does he know my name?
“Uh, yes,” I reply, holding my purse closer. “Can I help you with something?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us, Ms. Rogan.”
I tense as his partner steps up behind me, boxing me in. They want me to go with them? Why? I haven’t done anything wrong.
“Can I ask what this is about?” My voice wavers, but I lift my chin. I don’t want them to know that they intimidate me.
“You can come voluntarily, or we can use the cuffs,” the officer behind me says gruffly. I flinch. I don’t want to make a scene, so I nod, letting them lead me to the back of their cruiser.
The drive to the station is silent. They’re not going to tell me what this is about, so I don’t bother asking, turning my eyes to watch West Boston pass by me.
A few glances are cast my way as I’m escorted through the station to the interview rooms. No one takes my bag, and I’m not cuffed, but everything about this screams that it will not be pleasant.
Once I am seated in the interrogation room, they eye me pityingly, sliding out of the room, and two non-uniformed men walk in. Taking their seats on the opposite side of the table, one flips open a notepad, tapping his pen against it. The other folds his hands in front of him on the table as he speaks.
“Ms. Rogan. It has been brought to our attention that you’ve been employed at the Oracle strip club for a little over eighteen months now.”
That’swhat this is about? I blink in surprise. Surely not. That’s insane.
“And that’s a crime now? Being a bartender at a strip club?” Sarcasm drips off my words, a faint blush coloring the officer’s cheeks.
“There have been allegations of prostitution,” he says stiffly.
I recoil like he’s slapped me. “Excuseme?”
I probably should be upset. Instead, I’m angry. Like, furious. How fuckingdarethey imply that about me? They both shift uncomfortably in their seats. I don’t think they expected me to take that tone with them. Just wait. They haven’t heard atoneyet.
“As we said,” the officer with his pen and notepad speaks up, “there have been some allegations of prostitution made, and we felt the need to investigate them.”
“I’m sure you did,” I drawl. “And who made these allegations?”
They don’t answer my question. “You’re Hart Remington’s stepdaughter, aren’t you?”
Bile rises in my throat, and my gut twists. Oh, god, no.
“I don’t see how that’s pertinent to this line of questioning,” I grit out.
“I don’t think I need to tell you how allegations of prostitution against his stepdaughter could reflect badly upon him. You know this is an election year?”
I glare at them, fighting the urge to hurl. “I have nothing to do with my mother. I haven’t for years.”
“We aren’t talking about your mother. We are talking about Mr. Remington,” Douche-cop 1 inserts smoothly. I roll my eyes at him.
“Since my only connection tohimis that my mother was desperate and money-hungry enough to marry him, I guess we are talking about her,” I bite back. They seem surprised by the venom in my tone. But they push ahead with their parroted line of questioning anyway. They have to earn that pay-off.
“Mr. Remington is aware of the allegations made against you, and he’s willing to work with the Boston PD on a deal. If you cease your employment at Oracle immediately and return to live at Mr. Remington’s Beacon Hill residence, where he and your mother can keep an eye on you, we can clear these allegations immediately.”
My mouth pops open, and I clench my fists, digging my nails into my palms to stop from crying or screaming.Of courseHart knows about the allegations. He probably cooked them up himself when I ignored my mother’s visit to Oracle.
