30. Cain
I take a sip of thin, black coffee, tasting more of the paper cup than the coffee.
Bright, fluorescent lights buzz above.
One flickers obnoxiously.
The clock on the wall ticks away, and I have to stop my foot from tapping in rhythm under the steel table.
I put the cup on top of it and lean back in the hard metal chair.
My bow tie feels too tight, but I resist the urge to loosen it.
I can’t afford to seem nervous.
I am fuckin’ heart-in-throat, gut-churning anxious, but I don’t need the assholes watching me from the other side of the interrogation room mirror to know that.
They likely won’t let me out of their sight, hoping I’ll incriminate myself somehow if they watch long enough.
What they’re waiting for, I can’t say.
That’s exactly the issue.
I’ve been waiting alone in this room for over an hour, watching shadows pass by the windows to the hallway, but I can’t see shit because of those damn blinds.
Nobody has told me why I’m here, either.
They’re doing this on purpose.
It’s a strategy to break me and get me to confess or some shit.
Well, tough luck.
My lips are sealed.
My phone weighs heavily in my pocket.
The temptation to call my lawyer grows stronger with every passing minute, but I worry getting him involved might seem like an admission of guilt, like I have something to hide.
I came in voluntarily to answer a few questions, though the agent who cornered me on the balcony at the gala didn’t make it feel very voluntary when he flashed the gun under his suit jacket and shoved his badge in my face.
Typical intimidation tactics.
A surge of panic flares behind my ribs.
Do they have a warrant to search my house?
If they did, if they knew about my crimes, they would’ve paraded me around in cuffs, right?
Fuckin’ FBI.
I wish I could let Erica or Mandy know about this shit show, but I wasn’t given time to leave a message for them.
On the drive to the nearest police station that asshole agent watched me like a hawk, stopping me from sending a sneaky text.
My pulse races faster as I remember what Erica said.
I want you to be happy .
And right after I went and vanished on her.
What awful fuckin’ timing.
I hope she knows me well enough to realize I’d never ditch her.
The same agent who took me in enters the room and closes the door behind him.
He brushes over his grey hair, the deep wrinkles around his eyes creasing into craters as he slides into the chair on the opposite side of the table and drops a file onto it.
“You’re a difficult man to track down, Dr. Morrow.”
Amused, I raise my brows at him.
“Am I? I thought the FBI would have no problems finding a regular citizen. How long have you been searching for me?”
“Weeks. The difficult part was identifying one of San Antonio’s most prolific businessmen in such an… unusual getup .” He opens the file and takes out a picture, holding it away from me so I can’t see it.
“This look matches none of your official photographs in the papers or online. The tattoos on your forearms were a surprise, too. I suppose they don’t fit your clean guy image. You keep them well hidden.”
My chest tightens and I struggle to control my expression as he slides the picture across the table.
Shit.
There I am in full color, carrying Erica’s limp body through the motel parking lot in the middle of the night.
For fuck’s sake, how did the FBI get this?
I checked the place for security cameras and found the usual dummies every cheap hole-in-the-wall installs as a deterrent.
Then who—
“This picture was taken by a witness at the site,” the agent continues, answering my unspoken question.
Adrenaline rushes through me.
That damn creep from the front desk!
While I staked out the motel, he made excuses to walk past Erica’s room and even knocked on her door once to bring her wine.
He was into her, but Erica rejected him, disgust written all over her face.
I guess he kept watching her anyway, and by extension, watching me.
“That is you, isn’t it, Dr. Morrow?” the agent presses.
I bare my teeth in a cocky smile.
“Yes.”
“And why would a wealthy man of your social status be staying in a cheap motel 400 miles from here, dressed like a hillbilly runt?”
Fuckin’ asshole .
Like dragging me here isn’t bad enough, he also has to insult my style?
“You’re here of your own volition, Dr. Morrow, but if we have reason to believe you may be involved in criminal activities, we can hold you for questioning for the next 72 hours. It’s in your best interest to cooperate.”
He’s reaching.
My tense gut relaxes a fraction.
His pushy attitude tells me he has absolutely nothing on me apart from this picture, and that ain’t much to go on.
It’s not a crime to wear a cowboy hat, and neither is staying in cheap motels.
“I didn’t catch your name earlier,” I say.
My nerves are vibrating with rage.
It’s hard to keep up my calm demeanor and neutral speech, but I need him to see Dr.
Morrow the trustworthy citizen, not Dr.
Morrow the monster.
“I’m Agent Wolfer,” he responds.
I raise my hands, showing him my palms.
“Look, Agent Wolfer, I have nothing to hide, but this whole deal is somewhat embarrassing. I never told anyone about my secret vacations.”
His brows quirk, and I hold back a smirk.
Two truths and a lie, motherfucker .
My stalking of Erica is a bit embarrassing, and I haven’t told anybody about my hunts, but I do have plenty to hide.
“My job and charity work in the community can be very demanding. So, a few times a year, I like to get away. I drive around in my father’s old truck and pretend I’m a regular guy. A nobody.” I rub along the back of my neck.
“But what would people think if they knew the pressure got to me? It would make me seem unprofessional. Unreliable.”
Wolfer nods, humming, seemingly satisfied with my answer.
“Everyone needs a break sometimes. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”
I incline my head.
“Much appreciated.”
“But…” He pauses, holding my gaze like he’s trying to read my fuckin’ mind.
“That doesn’t explain the woman in your arms. For all I know, you might have killed her and this crucial evidence shows you disposing of her body.”
Before I can think it through, the next words already leave my mouth.