Chapter 22
Agent Magone, a slim, very tall man with auburn, thinning hair I introduced himself and beckoned me to sit opposite him in the classroom on the second floor of the Business School. A second officer sat beside him, and a recorder was resting on the table.
“Right, Lev Ashthorn…” he frowned, “I am told you are the great-grandson of-”
“You missed a great, and yes, I am. And I’m not rich.
My mom and I inherited nothing,” I blurted to get it out of the way.
Every time a stranger discovered my surname, it was the same boring assumptions.
But I’d rather we focus on that subject than bring attention to my record if they knew about it.
“Really?” he cocked his eyebrows as if he didn’t believe me. After all, I was attending an exclusive college that required a small mortgage and a hedge fund to apply.
I nodded slowly, waiting for him to cut to the chase, but I was familiar with this style of interviewing where they butter you up by pretending to be your best mate so you’ll relax and open up.
“So…what are you studying, Lev?” he asked in a friendly tone, proving my hunch right.
“Ah, a few different subjects,” I replied vaguely as he opened the folder on the table and I realized it had my name on it.
“Like what?” he pressed, still holding his tone.
“Like…ah, mostly engineering, but I take one business subject,” I replied honestly. “Have you identified who died?”
I assumed they had because you can’t board the train to Castlehill without being registered and ticked off, but my impatience urged me to get to the point of why I was called in.
Ignoring my question, Magone asked, “And you’re working toward a degree in engineering?”
“Yep,” I grunted.
“Four years, is it?” he persisted.
I nodded, clamping up and folding my arms across my chest. He shifted in his seat, knowing that it was a bad sign that I was shutting down, but he continued pretending to jot notes down in my file.
“And you’re on your second year, sophomore?”
“Yep,” I grunted as the second officer watched me closely, so I became aware of my body language.
“What do you want to do with the degree once you’ve achieved it?” Magone inquired, faking curiosity as he wasn’t interested at all. This was his style of interview.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Not sure yet.”
The auburn-haired detective shuffled in his seat again, and his entire vibe shifted, so I knew he was ready to ask the real questions.
“Okay, Lev, so we’re going to start from the beginning,” he signaled to the officer next to him, who then switched on the recorder.
“For the recorder, please tell me your name and date of birth.”
I swallowed, “Lev Ashthorn. Born November tenth, two thousand and five.”
“And that makes you how old?” Magone asked.
“Nineteen. Twenty soon,” I replied.
“Alright. Good. Now, did you board the nine-thirty train coming to Castlehill University on Thursday 31st of July?” he said smoothly, glancing up after he asked the question to watch me answer it.
“Yes,” I mumbled.
“Can you speak louder for the recorder?” he urged.
I cleared my voice, then spoke louder, “Yes, I did.”
Magone: “Which carriage were you seated in?”
Me: “C carriage.”
He slowly nodded as my heart raced and jotted something down in my file, giving the impression he was diligent, but he was probably drawing pics of penises.
“Did you ever leave the C carriage throughout the journey?” he pressed.
I paused to remember. “Ah, yeah, I went to the eatery in A carriage twice, I think.”
“You think? You’re not sure?” he persisted, and my nerves stirred. It was weird to feel guilty for something I didn’t do and had little information on, but I was concerned that I might be pinned for the crime just because I had a record.
I shook my head, trying to remember. “Hang on,” I exhaled and gazed up to the ceiling to catch my memories.
Taking note of how many times to went to the eatery was not something I ever thought I had to do.
“Once to grab a turkey sandwich and a Red Bull, and then later on to grab another Red Bull and a protein bar. So, yeah, twice.”
“Did you ever go back into the D or E carriages behind you?” he asked, and it occurred to me that whoever died was seated in one of those two carriages.
The Boleyn girl was in carriage D. I knew much, and we kept an eye on her when she boarded, but once seated, there was no need to stalk her because where else could she go on a moving train?
I shook my head. “No. I had no reason to.”
“Okay,” he nodded, relaxed in his chair, and exchanged glances with the officer beside him. “I think we’re almost done.”
The locked air in my lungs escaped, feeling like I’d been holding my breath. I was eager to glance at the time on my phone to see if I could still make my class since it was in the same building. I pushed my chair back to stand, then he said, “Just one more thing,” and I tensed again.
He lifted my file, and underneath was a downturned photograph, which he proceeded to push across to my side of the table. “Do you recognize the person in this photograph?”
I hesitated, feeling the weight of eyes scrutinizing my every move, then I turned the photograph over. The face of someone I didn’t know well, but I was acquainted with him.
“I couldn’t tell you his name, but he’s a student at Castlehill in my year,” I spoke the truth.
Magone nodded slowly, jotted something down again. “Do you remember seeing him on the train?”
I shook my head.
“Speak up for the recorder,” Magone urged.
I cleared my throat. “No, I did not see him on the train.”
“Did you hear anyone in carriage C mention him?” he then asked, and I frowned.
“I don’t know his name, so…” I shrugged, finding the question strange, and wondered if he was trying to catch me out on something. “If someone mentioned his name, I wouldn’t know who they were referring to.”
Magone persisted, “Was the man in the photograph in any of your classes?”
“No,” I shook my head. “I mean…not that I noticed.” Silence fell as images flashed in my mind of the body bag lying at the investigators’ feet yesterday, by two carriages parked on the spare track.
In the back of my mind, I remember seeing the letter C on the side of one of the carriages, but I could be imagining it.
I was certain the man in the photograph was not in my carriage because it was packed with Ez’s and Sick’s crew and teammates.
“How did he die?” I asked Magone.
He looked up at me under his auburn eyebrows and sternly stressed, “That’s not for public knowledge yet.”
“Yeah, but was it suspicious? I mean…were all of us on the train with a murderer?” I pressed, but he was giving me nothing.
“We’re done, Lev,” he said, leaning across the table to take back the photograph as the officer beside him pushed his chair back to stand. “You can go now, and we’ll contact you if we need you to answer any more questions.”
“Okay,” I mumbled as the second officer escorted me to the door, and as soon as I was free, I checked the time on my phone, pleased that it only took twenty minutes, instead of an hour, as Magone said, but I was disappointed that I was too late for class.
It was a class I shared with Adina, and I wanted to be close to her after that kiss.
The kiss.
Yeah, okay, so I wasn’t supposed to do that, and if the Warwicks found out, they won’t be happy, but I couldn’t fucken help myself.
Those long dark eyelashes that frame her pretty green eyes, freckles across her nose and cheeks, and pouty, plump lips.
But the sexiest part was her dark, dangerous side; perhaps there was a goth hidden underneath the snarling flames that would slice skin and paint her lips black.
The fish hooks to gauge out an eye, the words Die Fucker cut into my door, and I was keen to see what else she had up her sleeve.
Most men would think she was unhinged, but for me, it got me hard.
I guess you can say, I had a sadistic sense of humor that had to be kept in check, or else I could go too far.
That was why the boys asked me to live in Morgana to haunt her, but it didn’t cross my mind that she might haunt me.
The first image in the gallery on my phone was the pic I took of the Die Fucker. Perhaps when all of this was over, I could saw out that part of the door, frame it, and take it home to Hartford as a memento to always remember her by.
When we’re done with Maxwell Boelyn’s daughter, we’ll never see her again, or more accurately, she’d never want to see us again. So I needed to take advantage of the time I had with her.
As I walked down the corridor on the second floor of the business school, muffled laughter bled from the class that I should be in. The first day of school was always relaxed as tutors handed out the terms’ curriculum and recommended reading.
Weirdly, I felt jealous that I wasn’t in there.
All those brainwashed robots laughing along to some dumb joke were worth laughing at, not with.
But I wanted to be in there to be close to Adina.
I wanted to watch her interaction with other students, especially students who were strangers to her.
I wanted to see how she held her pen and what her writing was like.
Watch her hand smooth down pages as those hands, long eyelashes flick over moving green eyes.
I’d sit right behind her and watch her every move, making her feel uneasy so she’d be forced to look back. Yes, she was my little project, and even though I initially resented the Warwicks for giving me this task, after spending some time with her, I’d thank them for it.
The class was finished for another thirty minutes, and I didn’t have the patience to wait in the halls, so I left for Scholars to have a Red Bull and breakfast muffin.
As I walked down the stairs, I messaged Sick: Cops didn’t ask about my record. Only took 20 mins.
He didn’t reply until I arrived at the café with: Good. Did u mention Ez?
Me: No.
Sick: If the cops are going alphabetical order, then the Boleyn girl will be soon.
Me: Correct.
Sick: Make sure she says nothing.
Me: Done.