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“I don’t know, Isabella. He has a vendetta against Carter, that’s clear. But why he would send him in here unarmed is not normal.”
I shake my head, my heart in my throat. “I don’t know, but I don’t like this. We can’t have another war. We’re still picking up the pieces from the last one.”
“It will be okay,” Tristan assures me, but I can hear the doubt in his tone still. He doesn’t even believe it. “Maybe you should go upstairs before anything else—”
“He wantsher.”
The intruder’s words ring through the foyer.
Carter becomes rigid again, disjointed from empathy and reality at the same time, and he pulls his pistol up and doesn’t waste another second. The gun fires, the shot sending the man to his back while the life drains out of the new wound.
I harbor a scream into my hands, Tristan catching me as I turn and trip over my feet. It’s nearly too overwhelming to see, but it’s not over yet. Carter barks orders to have the bodytaken care of, but before anyone can move, there’s a flicking taunt of blue and red lights.
“Fuck,” Carter snaps. “Give him a gun.”
I don’t comprehend his words fast enough or decipher his meaning before the front door is kicked open in violent haste. We are all swarmed with the full force of men wearing body armor and flashing badges. Voices rise through the house, screaming for guns to be dropped, for everyone to get on the ground, and it feels like the world slows down while every new order is shouted to the rooftops.
Someone presses a knee into my back, and I hiss, my arms yanked behind me until a thunderous voice roars through the room, silencing the commotion.
“Get yourfuckinghands off her!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Isabella
Wrapped in a fleece blanket, curled on a bench in a stuffy interrogation room, I take the coffee cup from the brute detective. I don’t want to drink it as I’m already wired with adrenaline over the last handful of hours and what happened, but it keeps my palms warm. I bring it to my chin and let the steam invade my cold, pallid face.
The detective sits down across from me in the small space, his knees crossed. He’s in a suit with his badge hanging around his neck and swinging like a pendulum as he moves. I can’t help but watch him settle in with his notepad; the cycle of this ongoing interview starting to drain my ability to be friendly.
“I don’t have anything else to say,” I mutter, my throat raw. “I’ve already told you everything. Twice.”
“I know, ma’am. We’re just following up on some routine questions.”
“For what reason, exactly?”
“To line up stories and look for any discrepancies, ma’am.”
“I’m not lying.”
He gives me a curious look, and I settle on sipping my coffee to fill the silent void for now. He glances up at the camera in the middle of the ceiling, the one I’ve been tracking for hours, as I feel them watching me, judging my every word. I can’t help but notice how intently he stares at it, too.
After a long moment, he jots something down on his clipboard, holds up a finger, and leaves the room. Before he goes, he tosses his files on the seat beside me and then shuts the door on his way out. I swallow, wondering what ploy he’s initiating now. Still, I’m surprised to see his notes face-up and turned toward me with specific intent.
I have orders from the mayor to seek Blackthorne’s guilt. I will see what I can do. Tell them you’re hurt, and I can get you out of here and to a hospital. The questioning will be over.
A knot forms in my throat as the detective returns with a cold soda in his hand. He takes the notes and clipboard back into his lap as he sits across the room, and I plot my escape.
Pressing a hand to my shoulder, I readjust my position on the bench. “When will this be over?”
“Just a few more questions, okay?”
I nod but instantly lean forward, trying to stretch my back. It is sore after the officers pinned me to the ground at home, but not enough for me to claim I need to go to the hospital. Then again, if I need to lie to get out of here and this hellish nightmare, then I’ll do it.
I need to know Carter is safe, and given that the cop is trying to help me out, I’m sure he has answers to give when we’re not being watched.
Holding my coffee in one hand, I let my free hand flex and unflex methodically, groaning under my breath between questions and answers. It’s all been asked before, and I won’t change my story at all. There’s no need. Everything I tell them is the truth.
There was an intruder. Carter handled it because we feared for our lives.
