Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Dr. Red Mercer
Fluorescent lights flicker, their buzz crawling under my skin and washing the room in hard white. I continue to pace, four steps to the bars, three back to the bench, then I turn and repeat.
Concrete dust coats the air, sharp and dry, scratching the back of my throat every time I breathe deep. My wrists still burn where steel bit into them earlier, a heat that pulses when my hands clench without permission.
It's all tolerable. What isn't, is Blue.
Her face keeps cutting in, bright and furious under the sunlight, her mouth forming words I couldn't hear over the sirens. A cop's hand dug into her arm, too firm, too close, and the flash in her eyes, full of confusion and sorrow, haunts me.
I grip the bars and lean forward, staring down the empty corridor. Somewhere, a door slams hard enough to echo. Somewhere else, a man laughs, raw and broken, then coughs until it sounds painful. The sounds layer over each other, a soundtrack that never ends.
She doesn't belong in places like this.
Bright rooms suit Blue, rooms where smiles cut and promises carry weight. She belongs among people who understand power without having to raise their voices. The thought that she might still be running on adrenaline, still demanding answers from men with badges and tempers, makes my jaw lock tight.
I force myself to slow my breathing. Panic won't open any doors, yet rationale isn't working. My heart races faster.
Attorneys line up in my head like ghosts, all names with billboards and clean shoes, men who sell reassurance in thirty-second spots. Yet my gut says none of them would last long once certain phones started ringing. None of them would know how to contain a situation like this.
Jesus. How did I get myself into this?
Guilt and shame fill me. Then the sound of Blue moaning while clutching my body takes over. I squeeze the bars tighter until my knuckles want to crack.
I need an attorney and not just any attorney.
Kora Ivanov's face appears. She wins. She always has. She'd tear through this place and leave a path wide enough for me to walk out untouched, but she's not an option.
She's Blue's aunt, and that changes everything. If Kora steps in, the entire family machine wakes up. Questions get asked that don't need answers yet. Blue becomes a problem to be solved instead of a person to be protected, and I won't do that to her.
The Ivanovs will find out eventually.
My stomach sinks, and my pulse ticks. Adrian might actually kill me.
One problem at a time, I remind myself.
A public defender crosses my mind and quickly dies. This isn't a minor problem. I need someone who knows how to end things cleanly.
A voice drifts in from the next cell. "Hey, you got a smoke?"
"No," I reply and return to pacing.
"Cline," a guard with gray at his temples barks, passes me, then keys clink down the hall. A door creaks open and slams shut.
The guard leads a detainee in bloody, ripped jeans past my cell, and they disappear through a door.
"Might want to get comfy. You could be here for days," my cellmate states.
I turn away from him, my chest tightening, trying again to figure out who I can hire to get me out of this predicament.
Several minutes pass, and the guard reappears, barking out, "Mercer."
I lunge toward the bars. "That's me."
"Hands through," he replies, gaze steady.
I slide my wrists forward, palms open. The cuffs close with a familiar cold snap. He unlocks the door and nods once. "Walk."
We move through corridors that twist just enough to disorient. Cameras blink in corners. Painted lines on the floor pass under my feet. The air shifts as we go deeper, with less bleach, more stale coffee, and something sour I can't decipher.
I ask, "Am I being charged?"
"Keep walking." He grabs my elbow and steers me down another hallway.
My heart beats harder against my chest cavity.
He stops at a door that looks newer than the rest. The guard knocks once and opens it.
A tall and broad-shouldered man stands. His dark hair is swept back from his sharp features. The tailored black suit, cut with intent, fits him in a way only money can accomplish. His pale eyes lock onto mine, cold and precise, measuring without hurry. He orders, "Take off his cuffs."
The guard unlocks the metal and releases the restraints. He leaves the room and shuts the door.
I rub the skin on my left wrist.
"Dr. Mercer, have a seat," he orders, accent faint and polished.
I don't move. "Who are you?"
"Mikhail Volkov." He takes one unhurried step closer, stopping at the edge of my reach. "I represent interests that prefer you upright."
"Get to the point," I say, confused.
His mouth hints at a smile that never reaches his eyes. "Nikolai Sokolov asked me to come."
The hairs on my neck rise. "I don't know that name."
"You will. Nikolai works for Obrecht Ivanov."
My mouth turns dry. Any Ivanov I'm aware of in Chicago has influence that doesn't advertise.
Why would they send me an attorney?
And who is Obrecht?
Mikhail watches my reaction as if he's reading a report in my posture. "Your arrest created ripples. Certain people noticed."
I stay quiet, trying to hide my growing fear.
He adds, "Certain people didn't like how close law enforcement moved to territory they consider sensitive."
"She didn't do anything. Did they release her?" I blurt out, with more panic burrowing.
"Take a seat, Dr. Mercer," he instructs, pointing at the metal chair.
Why is Blue's attorney here?
I gaze at the chair, my unsettled anxiety morphing into a snowball.
"Please sit," Mikhail repeats.
Unsure of other options, I obey.
He sits across from me. "Everything has to do with proximity in the world she's from, as I'm sure you're aware."
My heart skips several beats, then squeezes so I can't inhale properly. I narrow my gaze, lengthen my spine, and attempt to appear unintimidated.
Mikhail assesses me, his dark eyes predatory as a hunter, like he can see through me and know exactly who I am as a person.
I lean back in the chair. "Where is she?"
"Safe enough. Contained."
The word needles me. I snarl, "You don't get to decide if she's safe."
He nods, with arrogance flaring. "I do at the moment."
Silence stretches, and neither of us flinches.
Mikhail folds his hands. "You need counsel. Not the kind provided by the state or that asks permission."
"And you think that's you?"
"I know it is."
"Who's Obrecht?"
"Adrian's brother."
My stomach churns. "Why is he involved?"
He deadpans, "Demi."
"Demi?" I question.
"Obrecht's daughter."
I peer closer. "I'm not following. I've never met her."
Mikhail takes a deep breath, presses the pads of his fingers together, and leans back.
"The Ivanovs do what's in the best interest of the Ivanovs.
I'm paid to make sure that happens. It's in the best interest of the Ivanovs that this goes away quietly, without any negative attention on Blue.
Would you agree that's in her best interest, Dr. Mercer? "
"Yes," I say without hesitation.
"Then I'll be representing you from this point forward."
I should thank my lucky stars, but I'm not naive. Nothing comes free in life. So I blurt out, "And what do you want in return?"
His lips curl. "Compliance. Discretion."
My jaw twitches.
He leans closer and taps the table. "It involves your cooperation to not make certain calls or invite unnecessary attention. In return, I'll resolve this efficiently."
"And if I refuse?"
His shoulders lift in a small shrug. "Then this becomes louder. Messier. Other people get curious. And curiosity isn't something you want, trust me on that, Dr. Mercer."
A lump forms in my throat. I study him, cataloging the confidence and lack of wasted motion. Men like this don't bluff because they don't need to. They state facts and see to it they come true.
"All you have to do is trust me," he adds.
I scoff, "You show up out of nowhere and expect me to trust you?"
His eyes narrow. "From where I'm sitting, you don't have a lot of options, now do you?"
"Is that a threat?" I hurl, heart beating wildly.
His grin forms slowly. He leans closer and lowers his voice. "It's in Blue's best interest. So trust this. If there's any backlash on her, you'll wish you were rotting in a cell instead of free on the street."
My pulse skyrockets. I don't move or breathe.
He rises. "You'll be moved shortly. Paperwork will change. Time will compress."
"What does that mean?" I question.
"It means this day never happened. The squeaky-clean career you're known for will still look as such."
I jerk my head backward. "How is that even possible? There was a very loud public incident as I'm sure you're aware—"
"It's my job," he interjects.
My voice cracks, "And what about Blue?"
His gaze sharpens. "She won't be your concern anymore. No calls. No visits. No records of her ever sitting in your office as a patient."
"That's not possible," I argue.
"Ah. But it is. I'm a man paid a lot of money to do things others can't, Dr. Mercer," he says, with a finality that crawls straight into my spine, but he mistakes my objection.
I'm sure he can do what he says he can. Mob money buys everything in Chicago, and now, I have no doubt the rumors about the Ivanovs are true. But there's no way Blue isn't my concern any longer. And the thought of erasing her is insane and not possible.
"Think carefully," Mikhail says and raps on the metal. He adds, "Some doors close gently. Others slam."
The guard appears. Mikhail brushes past him, and he orders, "Hands forward."
I obey, allowing him to tighten the cold metal around my wrists. He leads me back into the corridor, and the cell lock seals with a sound that settles deep in my chest. And one thought keeps circling without finding a place to land.
I've officially stepped into way more fire than I tried to avoid.