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“Her name is Harper Layne. Her mother found Zane’s body during a morning jog. Her story coincidentally changed after your family attorney spoke with her. She backtracked, and everything changed, and here we are, eight months later, and her daughter dies. Another death, another connection related to you.”
His hand snaps out quickly, and he grabs my wrist, pulling it toward him. He flips my hand over, palm up, and traces his fingers along my skin. “Are you the masked killer, Lakyn? How much blood is really on your hands?” he murmurs.
I pull on my hand, but his grip tightens, the pads of his rough fingers digging into my wrist.
“Let me go,” I growl.
He narrows his eyes, watching me with disdain. “If I find out that you’re the slasher, I’m going to nail you to a cross and watch you burn,” he growls.
I pull my wrist out of his hold, and my arm whips back, my knuckles whacking the table.
I lean forward, my hand pulsing in pain, the thumping reaching my ears. “Don’t you dare fucking put your hands on me again, got that? Just because my dad isn’t here any longer, doesn’t mean you can do what you please.”
Standing up, I want to attack, to threaten, to fucking destroy. But I can’t, because I feel like my safety hangs in the balance.
“I’m done talking. I’m ready to see Reign now.”
He smirks. “I’m not finished with our conversation yet.”
I smirk back at him, pushing my chair in. “I am, now bring me to Reign and Archer, or I’ll tell your supervisor you laid your hands on me. And not only on my wrist.”
“They’d never believe you,” he snaps.
My body relaxes, knowing I’ve once again regained the upper hand. “They will if I make them believe me.” I turn toward the door, my fingers wrapping around the cool metal knob. “Trust me, I’m much more dangerous than my father ever was.”
His jaw clenches and my insides warm. He fucking knows it. My father was powerful because of wealth. I’m powerful because there’s danger in my blood.
He stands abruptly, irritation in his sharp movements as his hand slaps to the table, dragging the notepad off with a jerk. He moves to the door, barely sparing me a glance. My hand lifts from the knob, and I step away from the door, allowing him to open it for me.
A gust of cool yet stale air filters in as he steps into the doorway. He glances over his shoulder, sparing me a look. “This conversation isn’t over yet, Miss Ashford.”
I smirk. “I’m sure it’s not.”
He stiffens, turning around and giving me his back as he walks from the station and toward the jail. I follow him down the quiet hallway and through a solid steel door. It buzzes before it unlocks, and we step through a set of metal detectors as we head farther into the building.
I’ve never been back here. Sure, I’ve been to the police station before, but never to the jail section.
The detective pulls out a walkie-talkie, turning the knob on the top before pressing the side button.
“Bring Whitmore to stand seven, please,” he barks.
“Copy.” The monotonous voice cuts out, and I hold my breath as we go through another set of solid doors that I swear look bulletproof and everything else proof as well.
Through the next set of doors, everything turns cement, gray, washed out. There’s a coolness to the air, as if it’ll never get fully comfortable in a building like this.
The detective stops, turning toward a set of cubbies with phones attached. “Please sit in the center and Mr. Whitmore will be out momentarily.”
Oh fuck, he’s turned into a stiff asshole.
My eyebrows quirk in confusion. “Certainly,” I reply, my tone proper and only slightly bitchy.
He narrows his eyes. I don’t wait around for a reply, heading toward my chair and sitting down. My hands go between my legs to hold them still, and my foot starts bobbing beneath the counter as I wait.
And wait.
And fucking wait.
Finally, after what feels like hours, though I’m sure it’s only minutes, I hear the sound of a door opening on the other side, and in walks Reign. He wears a pair of gray sweatpants and a gray sweatshirt, plain and drab, just as the rest of this place.
