28. You won’t break me, bitch
TWENTY-EIGHT
YOU WON’T brEAK ME, BITCH
“How many times? I know my rights. I would like my phone call and a lawyer present.”
I glance at the clock, well aware that I’ve been stuck in this godforsaken room for four hours now. Four hours of shivering because my goddamn dress got soaked and it’s freezing in here.
“She knows her rights, Bordeau.” Detective Wallowicz chortles. “Does she know that she’s looking at a murder-one charge?”
“Phone. Call. Oh, and a sandwich would be nice.”
“Murder-one charge for a pretty little thing?” Bordeau smirks. “That’ll be real hard. Getting sent up is no place for a woman like you. Just make a deal, Ms. Vasov. We’re looking out for you. The evidence is stacking up against you and this way, you’ll see life outside bars before you’re fifty.”
My jaw tenses.
Part of me wants this whole thing to be a setup. But Maxim told me the stakes were real. And as much wealth and power as the Veronians have at their fingertips, this is a legitimate precinct.
These are genuine detectives.
You can hire actors, but you can’t hire that ennui in their eyes. The combination of despair and devastation of a life spent coming across the perfidies of mankind.
Yet, everything about the scene is also wrong.
Yes, I’m handcuffed to the table and there’s no faking this interrogation room that reeks of ancient cigarettes and hopelessness.
But they haven’t forced me into one of those jumpsuits they put you in after forensics checks you out.
They’ve only booked me in and taken my picture and prints. A pat down that was more of a grope than a body search revealed my knife to them.
Of the two, Bordeau has more paws than a brown recluse.
So… is this on the down-low?
I’ve watched too many cop procedurals not to sniff a rat, but the fact this feels bona fide also has me on edge.
“I’d like a phone call,” I repeat, noting how someone’s turned the cameras in here to face the wall. There’s a severe lack of any substantial recording equipment too.
“If we give you that, then the deal’s off the table.”
“It’s not your place to make a deal,” I tell him sweetly, determining that next year, I’m going to take a class in this. Criminology or forensics or whatever. I won’t be caught short again. “Or is an ADA sniffing around that two-way mirror and I just haven’t met them yet?”
“We know you were there, Victoria. We know you argued with the victim. We know you came to blows with him over his dancing with other female guests. We have a witness who saw you and the victim arguing. We found a knife on your person. What do you want to bet that that knife matches the slash mark on his throat?”
Because I know that’s impossible, I close my eyes and don’t bother masking my boredom. “Phone call. I’ve been here for over four hours. This is a breach of my rights.”
“Would you like something to eat?”
My eyes pop open.
When I study them, awash with suspicion, Wallowicz tsks. “Well?!”
“Please.”
They grunt. Get up. Leave the room. Preparing themselves for another round of “make me talk without a lawyer present.”
This is their job, but it isn’t mine.
I know my rights and everything is wrong here. My hands might be cuffed, but they didn’t bag my valuables or charge me, so this is beyond shady.
The cops don’t bring me any food either.
Assholes.
Anxiety made it easy to shove aside hunger, but since the fucker brought it up, my stomach doesn't appreciate being made to wait after consuming mostly air and Champagne at the charity auction.
When the door opens, I glance at the clock. How is it 6 AM already?
“You said you’d bring me something to eat.”
“We were thinking you’d be open to discussion.”
“You mean interrogation. An illegal one. Seeing as, ya know, you’re ignoring my right to an attorney.”
I close my eyes once more and shut them out. Ignoring their questions, I don’t even bother listening or requesting food.
But it’s easier to avoid hunger when, in my mind’s eye, I see Maxim slipping that switchblade into my dress.
God, talk about bad timing.
Or was it?
Did he know this would happen?
Could the knives have similarly sized blades?
He’s the one who warned me the stakes were real. He told me what Harrington had looped him in on. No details. Just lofty suppositions about strategy and chess.
This feels nothing like chess and more like a game of goddamn Clue.
Except, I know who murdered the man and it’s definitely me, just not tonight.
But as much as I have an alibi, I question if I do.
People at the country club claim I was there. What if the people at the gala in the city claim I wasn’t?
What if—
My throat tightens.
No.
No.
Maxim isn’t in on this. He wouldn’t betray me. And I was in a public place. People must have seen me. There’s no—
Or is there?
The Veronians have power and Harrington is a well-respected name. Old money. Old connections.
Is this payback?
I refuse to stress out. That’s what this is about.
Putting me under pressure.
Waiting for the cracks to show.
Watching the implosion.
If I fuck this up, I could be facing a prison sentence.
If I don’t, then yay for me. Onto round three.
I can’t afford to fuck this up.
I won’t.
The cops lie all the time and they’ll say anything to get you to talk—both truths become my mantra.
Wallowicz’s return is so noisy that it makes me jerk in the seat, which, in turn, yanks on my cuffs and has me hissing in pain.
He has a stack of pictures.
I ignore them to check out the time.
Holy fuck, it’s 10.
AM.
Or… shit. I don’t even know now.
Could so many hours have passed without me being aware of it? No. Surely not.
Did they fuck with the clock?
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
How the hell don’t I know?!
My wet dress has dried, though, and it’s not exactly warm in here. Goose bumps pop up in a silent reminder that yeah, I’m goddamn freezing. And man, do I need to use the bathroom.
When I ask to go to the restroom, he places the shots in front of me, splays them out across the table, revealing grainy footage that’s less than incriminatory but...
Shit.
It’s the fact the blonde woman he’s circled is wearing a short black dress that makes my heart skip.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
There has to be an explanation.
But it’s only by chance that I switched into one of Camille’s gowns.
Because the woman in the picture is definitely wearing the dress Maxim sent to me—the cutouts at the waist, that sweetheart neckline, and the peplum at the hip all match.
Is it time to hyperventilate yet?
Watching the timeline progression of the woman who looks unerringly like me from a distance striding through the crowd and heading outside, has my lungs in a chokehold.
Despite the fact they’ve shown me pictures that aren’t me, it’s the potential betrayal that’s gnawing on my last nerve.
Who’d have known about that fucking dress aside from Maxim?
The shop assistant. The person who made the delivery. Misha? I can tell he doesn’t like me. Has Maxim’s brother betrayed us both?
The detective raps his knuckles on the table. “Focus.”
“Phone. Call,” I reiterate.
Wallowicz’s lips twist with derision. “It’s you, Victoria. You’re staring at literal proof that we’re going to use to lock you away for a very long time. I’m doing this to help you. By refusing to confess, you’re just making yourself look bad.”
“Shame that I know my rights and my rights don’t make me look bad. They make me look competent.” I hold his stare. “Phone call.”
He gets up, slams the door, and leaves me cuffed to the goddamn table. My shoulders are aching from the position they have me in, one forward, the other back, and the chair’s fixed so I know they use discomfort as a method of interrogation.
I close my eyes again.
Misha—Maxim would kill him for betraying me, unless he sanctioned the act.
Shop assistant—easy enough to bribe.
Delivery guy—guards tend to intercept my deliveries so it could be the original delivery driver or one of the guards.
I shuffle through my memories like they’re a catalogue and I seek that one out.
But I don’t remember a face.
Don’t even remember if it was a Russian or an Irish guard at my door.
I’m obviously more riled up than I realize because my mind draws a blank on the box itself too—was it the horrible dress Maxim encouraged me to wear for this rite or the one he wanted me to wear for the party we were attending together? An Irishman dropped off one and a Russian, the other. I think.
Cursing inwardly, not just at my loss of the memory, but also that I was so quick to turn on Maxim, I bite my tongue. That and curling my toes to the point of giving myself cramps are the only weapons in my arsenal of maintaining a grip on my sanity.
Once they know my calm facade is an act, they’ll scent blood and dig deeper. Then I am fucked.
I have no idea how long later, but Bordeau pops up next, Maxim’s switchblade in an evidence bag dangling from his grubby mitts.
There’s blood on the blade.
Wondering whose blood that is, I yawn. “Phone call.”
More hours pass. This time, I know it’s the early hours of the morning for sure.
They keep me in the interrogation room.
No food.
No water.
No toilet break.
But my discomfort doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference.
They hold me in here for so long that my throat’s dry and the urge to pee fades because I’m more thirsty than anything else.
They leave the lights on. Blaring and harsh. I turn my face into the table, trying not to think about the last time someone cleaned it, and I make an attempt at sleep.
Just when my shields lower, the door slams open.
Water’s brought in.
Knowing that they’ll use it and my urgency to pee against me, I want to avoid drinking any.
I croak, “Phone call.”
They take the water with them.
And I want to cry but I close my eyes, turn my face into my arm, and think about the ladybug pin in my hair, Maxim twirling me around the dance floor, and that third glass of Champagne I had—the last fluid I drank in who knows how many hours.
When the door slams open next, I see the corridor beyond. Just a snippet. The illumination beyond has changed.
It’s night—have I missed my marriage ceremony?