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I sit down for a moment, waiting like the man said, and it is only then that I realize I am still shirtless. And not wearing underwear. There hadn’t been time to do anything more than throw on a pair of gray pajama pants. I say a silent prayer that I at least had enough time to do that. This situation would have been much more uncomfortable had I been entirely naked.
When unknown minutes pass with no sign of anyone coming to speak with me, I stand up and begin to pace.
Without the sound of my footsteps on the floor, the room is too quiet. I can hear my own heart beating in my chest. I know it is all in my head, but I feel like I can hear my insides. Like I can hear my own organs working and digesting and pumping. So, I pound my heels into the floor to tune it out with no idea how lone I’ve been waiting.
When the door knob rattles, I jump.
It is impossible to hear the footsteps in the hallway, so I didn’t know anyone was coming. Before the door opens, I sit down in the chair and fold my hands in front of me.
I know someone in the building was watching video of me pacing like a caged animal, but I still want to look calm and collected for whoever they’ve sent in to interrogate me.
To my surprise, a short woman with her long blonde hair pulled back in a severe ponytail walks into the room. She is wearing a skirt and matching jacket, a clipboard held to her chest.
“Hello, Mr. Volkov.” She tips her head to me, mouth pulled into a tight line, and takes the seat across from me.
I see the shadow of a man standing just outside the door, surely there to make sure I don’t do anything violent.
“Why am I being held here?” I ask. “No one would explain why I was forcefully removed from my home.”
The woman folds her hands in front of her on the table and smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. They remain narrowed and focused. I feel like a bug under a microscope with her full attention on me.
“Where is my wife?”
“At home, I suspect,” she says. “We did not detain her.”
“Is that what I am?” I ask. “Detained?”
She leans back in her chair and folds her arms over her chest. “I am Agent Rian Morrison.”
Recognition flickers somewhere in the back of my mind, but I can’t place the name. “Charmed to meet you.”
She stares at me for a moment and tilts her head to the side. “You don’t know who I am.”
“You are Agent Rian Morrison,” I repeat quickly. “And I am Luka Volkov. Could we proceed to why we are both here?”
She leans forward and runs her tongue across her top row of teeth. “We are here, Mr. Volkov, because you killed my brother.”
I am momentarily stunned. I stare at her, trying to understand what she could be referring to or who she is. Then, it hits me.
Morrison.
Cole Morrison.
If I admit to knowing who she is, I have as good as admitted my guilt. So, I furrow my brow and shake my head. “I’m not sure I understand what you are talking about.”
“My brother is Cole Morrison,” she says, hatred written in every line of her face.
“And you said he died?” I ask, frowning. “I am sorry for your loss.”
All at once, Agent Morrison is on her feet and leaning across the small table, screaming into my face. “You son of a bitch! Don’t you dare sit there and apologize to me. Don’t you pretend you didn’t murder him.”
I turn my head to the side but don’t push away from the table. I want her to be the one to retreat. I won’t show any weakness.
There is a knock on the door and the shadow of a man appears in the window of the again. The agent takes a deep breath and sits down. She smooths her skirt down and shakes her head.
“It doesn’t matter, anyway. I do not need your confession.” She turns her attention to me, a smile pulling up one corner of her mother. “I have the entire murder on tape.”
My heart begins to race, but I do my best to remain calm, unflappable. “I’m sure that will make it easy to rule me out as the suspect, then.”
