Chapter 32
The ringtone screamed out, just as he was about to speak, and my hands fumbled over my phone to switch it off.
“Sorry,” I breathed, embarrassed, then swallowed nervously.
“My dad.” I felt the need to show the detective my dad’s name on the screen.
Gosh, I needed to cool my jets and stop acting like I was guilty of something I didn’t do.
Detective Magone smiled but watched me closely, which made me shake even more as Ezrah and Lev’s threats for me to keep my mouth shut kept nagging my internal dialogue, and I needed to brush them aside and relax.
“Are you ready?” Magone asked as he opened a folder, and I leaned forward trying to see what was written on it, but he turned the top page over.
“Yes,” I nodded, then put my phone away in my bag as my father, the Warwicks, and Lev were pushed to the back of my mind.
“Good.” Magone then nodded to the officer next to him to switch on the recorder, and he glanced at his watch, then said aloud into the recorder the time, date, and my name.
“So, your surname is Boelyn? Are you related to Maxwell Boelyn?” he asked, and I was tempted to say, ‘What did he have to do with this?’
I nodded as the words were caught in my throat due to the nerves firing bullets at my chest. I cleared my throat and croaked, “I’m his daughter.”
“You’re Maxwell Boelyn’s daughter?” he repeated, and I nodded, and he asserted, “Speak into the recorder.”
I took a sip of water from the glass on the table and then said aloud, “Yes, I am Maxwell Boelyn’s daughter.”
“That was him calling you just now?” he added casually. I think he was making small talk to try and relax me, but it wasn’t working because Ezrah’s angry threats kept popping up in my mind.
“Yes,” I replied and leaned down to grab my bag off the floor, assuming that he wanted to listen to his message.
“No, no,” he showed me his palm, “I don’t need to see it. That’s your personal business.” He jotted something down on the file before him, and I assumed it was my file, even though I couldn’t see a name on it.
“Okay,” I took a deep breath to calm my racing heart. “he’s probably calling to remind me to look for an old school photograph of my stepmother.”
Too much information. God, Adina, why do you switch from being too terrified to speak to verbal diarrhea when you’re nervous? Shut up, shut up, shut up.
“Oh, okay. Your father remarried?” he questioned curiously, and I was unsure if this was him making small talk or if this was part of the investigation. My head was bulging with a hundred million scenarios, some imagined, some real.
“Yes,” I clammed up after replying because I didn’t want to talk about her for fear they might detect that I hated her and that might make me guilty of something. Oh, gosh, my brain needs to shut up.
Magone straightened his back, and I knew we were about to get into the purpose of why I was there. So, I had to be prepared for questions that might make me uncomfortable.
“So, Adina Boelyn, are you aware of why you’re here?” he stated, looking at me from under his eyebrows, which was a little intimidating.
“Because you asked me to come in,” I replied, then realized that sounded arrogant, so I backtracked. “Because of the incident on the train.”
“Right. So, according to our records, you were on the train when the incident happened. Is that true?” he held the pen in his hand expectantly for my answer.
“If you say so,” I answered, still in the dark as to what the incident was exactly. I mean…we all know there was a body found, but how did they die?
Strangely, the last person in the world I expected to think of appeared in my mind.
Carrie, the mean girl, who told me of the rumor that the Warwicks had something to do with the dead body.
That’s the problem. There seemed to be only rumors and hunches, but not a single person was a witness to the death of the body and had a clear story about it.
In fact, I hadn’t heard anyone mention the name of the victim.
“Do you remember which carriage you were in?” he asked, and I got the impression he already knew.
“Um,” I blushed because I couldn’t remember what was written on my ticket. “The fourth one down from the engine.”
“The fourth one? Could it be carriage D?” he pressed, slightly impatiently.
“Yes, I think so,” I seemed vague, but he shouldn’t expect me to remember everything. It was two weeks ago, and I’ve been so busy since and barely had time to think about it.
“According to your file, you were assigned a seat in Carriage D,” he informed me.
And I felt as though I was being scolded for having a bad memory, or maybe he thought I was trying to hide something. “Okay.”
“Did you stay in that carriage? You didn’t move seats into another carriage?” he questioned.
“No, I stayed put for the entire journey,” I told him honestly.
“Did you leave your carriage at any time through the journey to say go to the eatery or perhaps have a look around?” he asked me.
“Um, I went into Carriage C to use the bathroom because…” I froze dead midsentence as the image of Ezrah Warwick was in the bathroom, threatening someone. What a prick? “Because the bathroom in my carriage was in use and I was bursting.”
Magone: “And you didn’t leave Carriage D for any other reason?”
I shook my head. “I had food and water that I brought from home, so I did not need to leave apart from using the bathroom. And um, I am new to Castlehill. This is my first year, and I transferred from my old college, so I didn’t know anyone and didn’t talk to anyone for the entire trip.”
Did I say too much?
“Did you see anything suspicious going on in your carriage?” he persisted, and my head spun.
“Like what?” I shrugged, then felt bad because my tone was harsher than I intended, and I didn’t want to come across as being unhelpful. Weirdly, I felt guilty even though I knew I wasn’t.
“Like say bullying, threats, weapons?” he rattled off, and my mind couldn’t move on from Ezrah threatening that loner guy.
“No,” I lied. “As I said, I left my seat only once and didn’t see or hear anything.”
He leaned back in his chair, pulled out a photograph from under the file, and placed it on the table. “Have you seen this man before?”
I picked up the photograph and immediately recognized the man as the same man that Ezrah was threatening in the bathroom.
But he was still alive when the train arrived at our destination, and we left the carriage.
He was sitting in the seat, staring out the window.
Admittedly, he wasn’t happy, and I tried to console him, but he wanted nothing to do with me.
“Do you recognize him?” he pressed when I didn’t answer him, tapping his finger on the table.
“I don’t know his name, but he was seated in my carriage,” I told him honestly.
I was speaking the truth, but leaving out an important detail that criminalized Ezrah Warwick. Now, I know why he needed me to keep my mouth shut. The man in the photograph seemed about my age and had a loner vibe that I recognized because I was the same.
“Is he the one who died?” I needed to hear him say it to clarify how serious this situation was.
“Sadly, yes, unfortunately,” he replied, taking the photograph back and slipping it under my file.
My throat felt constricted, and I had to clear my throat again. “How did he die?” Fear coiled through my body as the skin prickled along the back of my neck, traveling down my spine.
He shook his grey head, “We’re not at privy to give those details over yet.”
I wanted to ask more questions, but it was obvious that he wasn’t prepared to tell me. And the words that circled in my mind repeatedly were, Ezrah Warwick, killed that man. Ezrah Warwick killed that man.
Magone said dryly, “I think that’s enough for now, but we might need to question you further in the not-so-distant future.”
“No problem,” I said too eagerly, immediately regretting it.
As soon as I was free from that room, I was disoriented walking out into the hallway in the Business School, yet it took me a few seconds to figure out which way to go. My head spun, and my skin crawled, so I retreated into the nearest bathroom to sit down in a closed stall to gather my thoughts.
Ezrah Warwick killed that man. Ezrah Warwick killed that man.
They’re all in it. Lev, Nicolae, and probably their jock friends were all in on it, covering each other’s backs. Sticking together in an impenetrable bond.
But why? What did that poor guy do to deserve the wrath of Ezrah Warwick?
Sitting on the toilet, I leaned forward, propping my elbows on my knees and dropping my face into my hands as my breath grew heavy and uncomfortable in my chest. My eyes were dry, even though I was emotional, and as the rational part of my brain started to take over, I plotted what I should do next.
I had to leave. There’s no way I can stay here.
Then I remembered my dad had called and rummaged around in my shoulder bag for my phone. The scabbard that held my knife was still thankfully. Where else would it be? God, I needed to calm down and think rationally about this.
Just as I fished out my phone, the door squeaked as someone entered the bathroom and stepped into the stall next to mine. Dad left two voicemails, but I didn’t want to listen to them until I was alone. Two voicemails?
It must be an emergency. The man barely knew I existed most days, so receiving two messages in the space of thirty minutes was particularly unusual. Why didn’t he send a text message, though?
As soon as the girl left the bathroom, I checked both voicemails, and it was my father’s voice telling me to call him ASAP.
He was fuming, but restraining his anger, which made it a hundred times worse.
Speaking from experience, anger rarely roused in my father, but when it did, and you didn’t want to mess with him, you’d always come off second best.
Excited chatter filled the bathroom as several girls walked in, and I thought it best to leave to find a quiet corner somewhere to call Dad. Aware that Lev and Ezrah knew my class schedule and might be seeking me out, I kept my head low, my eyes alert, and my hand rested on the knife in my bag.
I quickly ran down two flights of stairs, and when I reached the ground floor, I stepped outside and turned a sharp right, keeping to the back passages. I turned a sharp right and kept closely to the wall until I found a quiet corner, then swiped my father’s number.
My head was bulging with thoughts and worries as an ache appeared at my temples from my clenching, waiting for my father to answer.
Finally, “Addie?”
“Dad, what’s happened?” I breathed.
“Pack your bags. I want you home. Now.”