Chapter 13 #2
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss, not bothering to hide the venom in my voice.
He wags a finger at me, much like a parent might scold a naughty child. “Ah, ah, you’re going to calm down. We’re adults here.”
Then he taps his fingers against the table in three quick beats.
Once. Twice. Three times.
His unspoken command to remember my place.
Careful, Kiki.
Enough, Kiki.
Get yourself back in line, Kiki.
The sound slices straight through me. For years, that innocuous rhythm was his way of reining me in. I believed it was normal. But being with Eddie has given me true freedom, along with the knowledge that I’m not too much.
To Eddie, I’m perfect, just as I am.
And yet, my spine stiffens out of habit as I fall silent.
“You see, Officer Delaney and Officer Brennan were also at the gala that night,” Drake continues.
I jab a finger in his direction. “I know! Officer Brennan took me home after you left.”
Drake rubs his chin, his eyes steely. “That’s not how Officer Brennan remembers it. Or Officer Delaney. In fact, they both went on record, stating that Brennan didn’t take you home. I did.”
What the hell is happening? I grip my head, desperate to keep the facts straight in my mind, lest Drake drag me into whatever twisted version of reality he’s selling.
“But… but that’s not how it happened, Drake.”
He laughs, but there’s no mirth in it. It’s a sinister sound, washing over me like shards of ice.
“Let’s be honest. Lots of people remember you drinking pretty heavily at the gala.
You were loud and boisterous and obviously drunk.
I get the details were murky for you, and you were going on little sleep when they interrogated you.
But it’s time to come clean, Kiki. Time to tell the truth. ”
“What does that mean?”
“Admit you were drunk, and that you have a habit of blacking out when you drink heavily.”
I’m not an idiot. Drake wants me to walk back my story, align with the one created by his cop buddies, and throw doubt all over the prosecution’s case.
Insanity at its finest, although I’m certain it happens all the time.
But there is an ugly underbelly to his request. I was drinking that night, and now I’m not sure what happened. I swore Officer Brennan took me home but maybe I imagined it? Maybe it was a dream?
Is that possible?
Jesus Christ, Kiki.
“Simply admit that your memory might not be what you originally thought. Corroborate the stories of two highly decorated officers. Don’t you want your life back?
One retraction can make the last several months go away.
” He folds his hands and studies me like he’s being unfailingly reasonable.
“Think carefully about what you want your life to look like when this is all over, Kiki. That’s all I’m asking. ”
My heart stutters in my chest.
Lie for me, and I’ll set you free.
Tell the truth and I’ll ensure you pay forever.
He doesn’t say those words. He doesn’t have to.
And in that instant, I know he’s guilty—of everything. There’s not a doubt in my mind. Not anymore.
I push to my feet, though I’m not entirely convinced my legs will cooperate. All I know is I need to leave. Now. “You want me to help set a monster free? Are you insane?”
“You and your flair for the dramatics.” And then he laughs, a low, ugly sound, the sheer audacity of it stealing what little air I have left in my lungs.
The bastard finds me amusing. Finds being called a monster amusing.
Whatever scraps remained of the man I thought I married vanish into the ether, leaving the demon in his place.
Oh, he still wears Drake’s face. Still has the same sharp jaw, the same steady gaze, the same voice that once made me feel safe. But the man I built a life around is gone. Or maybe he was never there at all. Maybe he was always a cold, calculating, obscenely arrogant evil beneath a polished facade.
Because, despite my refusal to play his game, he’s not panicking.
This isn’t the desperate scrambling of an innocent man wrongly accused.
It’s confidence. The kind that comes from knowing there are still pieces on the board willing to move for you.
“I’m getting out of here, with or without you, Kiki.” His stony gaze pins me where I stand. “But you’d be a lot smarter to have me on your side.”
I turn and walk straight for the door, every nerve in my body screaming for distance. My hand hits the call button hard. Once. Twice. The few seconds it takes for the lock to buzz open feel endless, as if the room itself wants to trap me here with him.
The second the door gives, I’m out like a shot.
By the time I shove through the front doors and stumble into the parking lot, I’m no longer breathing so much as dragging air into lungs that refuse to work properly.
The sick truth? If he somehow got the charges dropped, my life would get easier.
But that is not an option. Not now. Not ever.
And despite his claims that everyone saw me drunk and unruly, despite the momentary indecision where his interrogation skills tried to poke holes in my recollection—I remember what happened. What my gut has been screaming at me for months. What hindsight has illuminated in ugly, unforgiving detail.
And I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the man I just left sitting in that visitation room is lying.
But if two cops are willing to corroborate something I know in my bones is false, then how many more are there?
How deep does this go?
How many people in Sparkwood, the same people already making my life a living hell, are tangled up in the same filth Drake swears he knows nothing about?
And by refusing to play along, by looking him in the eye and saying no, how much bigger of a target did I just paint on my back?
I’m not entirely sure how I make it to the liquor store.
After being told I was too drunk to remember the events of that night, buying alcohol is probably the worst possible idea, but right now it feels like the only thing standing between me and a full-scale breakdown in the middle of Main Street.
So here I am.
My hands shake as I move down the aisle, scanning shelves without actually reading anything. The labels blur together in a riot of serif fonts, pastoral vineyards, and promises of notes of cherry or oak or whatever the hell else people pretend to taste when they drink wine.
Fuck it. What does it matter? I just want a drink.
The twisted part is, I’m not much of a drinker anymore. A glass of wine here or there, maybe a cocktail at an event, but that’s about it. The gala was a true outlier event, a chance to cut loose a bit. Look how that turned out.
Right now, though, I don’t care if it tastes like paint thinner. I need something to take the edge off before I come completely unglued.
I snatch the first bottle within reach and head for the register.
By the time I get in line, my card is already out, every inch of me primed to bolt.
But luck is not my friend today.
“You’d think she’d move.” The voice comes from somewhere behind me. Female. Mid-fifties, maybe. The kind of voice that has probably spent years weaponizing church bake sales and whispered gossip.
Another woman makes a low, disgusted sound. “Wish she would. Can’t stand to look at her.”
For one wild, blistering second, violence surges through me so hard it nearly blacks out my vision. I imagine turning around and swinging the bottle in my hand straight at their heads. Glass shattering. Red wine, blood, and righteous fury all over the cheap linoleum floor.
Bet they’d shut up then.
“Ma’am?” The cashier’s voice cuts through the haze and I jerk my head up.
She’s wearing a gentle expression as she points toward the card reader. “You have to swipe your card.”
“Oh.” My fingers won’t cooperate. I swipe it once and miss the reader entirely. Try again and nearly drop the damn thing. “Sorry. I—”
“Here, let me get that.”
Maybe it’s the look on my face. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m shaking so hard I can barely remain upright. Whatever the reason, she doesn’t say another word—which somehow makes me want to cry even more.
As soon as the receipt prints, I grab the bottle and rush for the door, running smack into someone on the way out.
I don’t apologize, which seems rude and awful, but what’s the point? They’re going to hate me regardless.
I make it to my car and fumble for my keys, my vision blurring so badly I can barely find the lock. Of course the damn key won’t go in.
Give me a fucking break.
“Kiki?”
My whole body goes stock still, every muscle locking up. I cannot handle another round today. I can’t survive one more whispered insult, one more sneer, one more person acting like my existence is a public offense.
“Kiki?”
This time the voice is closer. Familiar.
Turning, I see Eddie standing a few yards away on the sidewalk, a sporting goods bag hanging from one hand. Beside him, Theo absently swings a hockey stick like a flag, but the second he sees me, he goes quiet.
Even at six, he knows something is wrong.