Chapter 15
Tacy
“I’m trying to understand how you made it home from Starkey’s house all the way out in Greensboro?” The detective asks as he hands me a cold coke in a can.
I’m sitting in the Sheriff’s office later that day, exhausted and in need of a hot shower. Since calling nine-one-one, I’ve had my house searched and taped off as a crime scene. I’ve been sent to the hospital for a medical examination and to report the injuries I incurred. While there, I managed to gain the attention of my floor manager and nursing supervisor, who not only questioned me about the kidnapping but also about my recent episodes of syncope. They extended my vacation by two weeks. And now I’m being grilled by the detective because, well, there’s a dead body in Greensboro and a woman who claims she was kidnapped then rescued by a masked assailant. The woman being me.
I take a sip of coke and clear my throat. “Well, Detective, the guy who saved me also hitched me a ride back to my house.”
“Yet you didn’t get a name or a description of this Avenger of yours?”
“That’s correct,” I reply. I’m tired of the third degree. I’ve already explained this at least ten times. Do they think I’m a suspect in Starkey’s murder now? I need to watch what I say…and get a lawyer.
“Did you happen to notice how tall the guy was? His build, maybe? Was he tall or short? Stocky or thin?”
“I’d say about six foot two. Stocky but muscular.” In fact, the guy didn’t have an ounce of fat on him, I don’t recall. A lot like Sol. Just my type.
“Okay. And what about his vehicle?”
“I mean, it was dark, but I think it was a gray Ford F150. Had a stripe down the side and a skull decal on the back window,” I lie. I mean, I didn’t lie about the make, model, and color, but I did lie about the decal. They don’t need to know everything. I don’t want him to get arrested. I want to see his face before that happens.
“Right, right,” the Detective sighs and leans forward in his roller seat. “I also found it interesting that you have a history with Orion Starkey…do you not?”
“Should we be in a mirrored room with cameras for all this questioning, Sir? Because I feel like I’m being interrogated. Need I remind you; I was kidnapped. Assaulted. And nearly killed. I’m the victim…not your suspect,” I say and cross my arms over my chest. “Maybe you should be looking into Mr. Starkey’s activity before he kidnapped me. And why he kidnapped me.”
“Should I be interrogating you, Mrs. Rountree? I have no problem securing a special room for said interrogation, as well as a set of handcuffs.”
This mother fucker has lost his mind. So, THIS is how victims are treated. Like criminals. This is utter bullshit. I’m fuming. My cheeks are flushed, and my heart is playing the beat of Another One Bites the Dust. I remind myself to stay calm. The angrier you get, the more riled up you get, the more ammunition you give them. The guiltier you look.
I take a deep breath. “No, there’s no need. Yes, we have a history. Orion and me. I met him in high school.”
I want to tell him the guy drugged me and used cult mind control methods he learned from Charles Manson, but I keep that to myself. I want to tell him the guy manipulated me into unspeakable acts, on occasion involving innocent people. But giving him that information makes me seem more suspicious. Why would I also confess to the crimes I committed in my teen years that I thought no one would ever find out about?
“And what was your relationship with Mr. Starkey?” He asks. His cold black eyes stare straight through me.
“Oh. A normal teenage boyfriend-girlfriend type thing, I guess.” I sip at the coke again. Trying to play it nonchalant.
“Mm hmm,” he peers down and lifts a sheet of paper from the table. Then pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Is it also true that Mr. Starkey ran a Satanic cult at that time? Oh, between the years two-thousand and two-thousand-three?”
“Cult? Hmm,” I say and take another sip of my coke. It’s time to lawyer up.
“Isn’t that the same time you were dating Mr. Starkey?” He sets down the paper and glares at me. His eyelid twitches.
I stand up, button my sweater, and turn for the door. “We are done here, Detective. It’s time for me to go home and get some rest.”
“I didn’t say we were done,” he exclaims and stands from his seat.
“Are you holding me here?” I ask him and reach for the doorknob.
“No, we can’t do that,” he says.
“Then I’m leaving.” I turn the knob and step out. But before I can shut the door the Detective says, “might want to stick around, Mrs. Rountree.”
I look at him. “I wouldn’t leave anyway Detective.”
I’m getting a lawyer. Because now, not only am I the victim and on someone’s hit list, but I’m a number one suspect in a murder case. Unless my stalker decides to unmask and turn himself in.