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Because she left a note.
A fucking suicide note.
Then there’s the medicine cabinet, left open in Monica’s haste to leave. The detective found a prescription for benzodiazepines, but the pill bottle matching the paperwork is missing. He doesn’t have to tell me that mixing them with alcohol can prove fatal.
Something about all of this doesn’t add up, and the detective knows it.
Iknow it.
“Am I being charged with a crime?”
He raises a brow at my blunt question. “No, this is merely an interview.”
“Then if you don’t mind, it’s late.” I push up from the stiff-backed chair, making it clear I’m done with his questioning for the night, because he’s been going in circles.
“I’ll be in touch, Mr. Montgomery.” There’s an undercurrent of suspicion in his words, and that gives me pause.
“Do I need a lawyer?”
Stupid question. I should have lawyered-up the instant they brought me to the precinct. As if fate is looking out for me, someone knocks on the door. The attorney MontBlake has on retainer strolls inside the room and instructs me to stop talking.
“Mr. Montgomery is my client,” Thomas Blackwell tells the detective. “Unless you’re charging him, he’s leaving with me now.”
“He’s free to go.”
Blackwell ushers me from the room, and I wait until we reach the front of the precinct before speaking. “My father sent you?”
“Yes.” He stays close to my back as we make our way outside to a black luxury sedan. He opens the back door where I find my father waiting for me. I slide onto the cold leather seat, and the attorney slams the door before taking the passenger seat in the front.
“Why the hell didn’t you call me?” Dad demands. A partition shields our conversation from Blackwell and the driver.
“I didn’t think about it. By the time I did, they were already questioning me.”
“I hope you kept your head on straight in there.”
“I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Bullshit. Where were you?”
“With Kaden.”
“Try again. Kaden hasn’t seen you this weekend.”
“You talked to him?”
“At least one of my sons has the decency to answer his phone.” He folds his arms across his chest and penetrates me with a shrewd stare. “It’s just you and me now, son. What the hell happened today?”
“How am I supposed to know? I wasn’t home.”
“That’s what I’m gathering. Where were you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it doesn’t.”
I shoot him a glare. “Do you even care that someone is dead, or that Monica is missing?”
“Of course, I care,” Dad huffs.
