30. Have a little faith
THIRTY
HAVE A LITTLE FAITH
The desire to focus on the clock has me in a thrall.
It’s one I’ve had to fight. Repeatedly.
This is a game I’m playing to win, and watching the slow passage of time slip through my fingers could be what breaks me.
I refuse to break.
It doesn’t help that Rachel seems to take a lifetime to turn up at the precinct.
But she lives in West Orange and had a ways to travel—it’s not like teleporting’s a thing.
Logic doesn’t seem to matter much in this place.
Primarily, it’s fear talking.
Fear that I fucked up.
Fear that I trusted Maxim when I shouldn’t have.
A part of me mulls over why I didn’t call Brennan or Eoghan. Even the O’Donnellys’ psychotic matriarch, Lena, would have had my back and I wouldn’t be worrying about my lawyer showing up.
And as I hate myself for doubting him, my brain won’t let me stop.
I think back to those times when we were together, alone. Where he showed me a side of himself that I know few have ever witnessed before.
Hell, maybe no one.
I can’t imagine him letting his guard down for anybody else, and here I am, not trusting him.
Though Niven brought me back to the same interrogation room, that he changed my position is appreciated—I’m no longer twisted, one shoulder pushed forward, wrists cuffed so tightly that I’m pretty sure the marks will remain for days.
I try to sleep to kill time, but I’m awake when the door creaks open. I simply don’t waste my energy lifting my head.
Wallowicz has been in to visit once or twice, some packets of saltines with him, a bottle of water.
They remain untouched.
I’m not a psyop soldier, for God’s sake, but I can’t help but question if they’re tainted. Then there’s the fact that they removed the bucket while I was in the restroom.
“Victoria?”
The voice is sharp and distinctly female, so I glance up then jerk back as relief floods me. It’s less to do with my current situation and more to do with Maxim—I can believe in him. God, that more anything makes me want to weep.
So, of course, I lock that down straight away.
“Ms. Laker?” I half-plead, desperate for something.
I was starting to think they’d left me to rot.
“Call me Rachel, please.” She flicks a look at me, my dress, the table, the saltines, and then, eyes hard, inquires, “How long have you kept my client in here?”
“Days,” I rasp bitterly. “I’ve requested a lawyer so many times since they brought me in on Friday night.”
“It’s Sunday evening!” she protests, tracking the marks on my face. “I’ll be reporting this to the proper authorities once we’re done.”
“You can report a lot else besides. His partner—” I sneer at Wallowicz. “—sexually and physically assaulted me.”
As the detective sputters, “There’s no proof of that! She came in all bruised.” Rachel slams her case on the table. “I beg your pardon?!”
“You turned the cameras away,” I slip in.
“When I came back from making my phone call, they were all properly situated. Imagine that—you didn’t want proof of the cops literally torturing me with sleep deprivation, denying me access to the bathroom, barely providing me with any food or drink… I could go on.”
Her fury is a living entity and, God, the sight of it has me back on the brink of tears.
Someone cares.
Wallowicz escapes in the face of it before she takes a seat at my side and we discuss my stay at Interrogation Room 101.
“Do not make a single comment unless I tell you to,” she barks at me, and while I knew she was nice, I find myself liking her even more.
Straight to business, no bullshit—just cold, hard resolve.
Damn, no wonder Wynter decided to switch careers to emulate her mom.
What a girl boss.
“I won’t say a word during the interview.”
“Good. We should have you out shortly. Seeing as you haven’t been charged, they’re holding you illegally.”
I sag against the table. “Thank you for coming. I’m so grateful—”
Rachel clucks her tongue. “Of course I was going to come. And not only because Wynter freaked out when she overheard you’d been arrested.”
My eyes widen. “Oh, is she okay?”
“Yes.” Her lips purse with disapproval. And I just know, somehow, she’s learned about Wynter’s attempt to join the Veronians.
“I don’t approve of how you met but… there’s no denying how close you’ve grown. Wynter finds it hard to make friends. She’s a social butterfly on the surface but nobody ever digs beneath. I saw the other day that you’d burrowed your way in.”
“I have? I-I hope I have. I mean, I like her too.” I lick my lips. “Is she okay?”
“Yes. She’s fine. Back in Poughkeepsie.”
“I’m glad. I know she’s strong, but I don’t think she’d have been able to deal with…” I waft a hand that encompasses the interrogation room. “…this.”
“Neither of you should have had to,” she fumes, but then she contains her pique and straightens her shoulders.
The sharp lash of her disapproval sinks behind an icy mask that reveals little to no emotion, only for it to soften for a split second with a pat to my back.
“Regardless, let’s get you out of here. To be brutally honest, sweetie, you stink. ”
“I can imagine.”
“They did torture you,” she insists.
I lower my eyes but don’t answer.
“You’re getting into bed with the devil, Victoria. Both of you need to reconsider your plan of attack if not the whole idea.”
Without waiting for a reply, she heads for the door and the detectives reconvene.
Over the next forty minutes, Wynter’s mom hands the cops their asses. Rachel, you see, came armed with the results of a coordinated assault by Maxim and the O’Donnellys—I can identify Uncle Conor’s sticky fingers like he smudged the evidence in jam.
The perks of having a hacker on your side?
Multiple time-stamped images of me at the gala on Friday night. Me dancing with Maxim. Maxim and I laughing at some of the auction lots. Maxim and I eating. Drinking.
Maxim.
Maxim.
Maxim.
Leaving this to Rachel, I scrutinize the possessive hold he has on me, the way his body angles mine so that I’m always being sheltered by him. A hand on my hip or cupping my elbow. His arm banded around my stomach, drawing me closer.
Always closer.
Inches between us are too much for Maxim.
The way he looks at me—he could devour me whole.
The want in his expression sinks bone-deep. His devotion to me so utterly transparent, it bleeds into his every move.
The pictures and Rachel’s skills almost make this shitshow I’ve endured worth it.
In the face of her competence and Maxim’s feelings for me, the cops stutter and stammer like the mindless enforcers they are.
Bordeau’s expression turns to stone when Rachel tells him all the ways under the sun she’s about to have him strung up, and how Wallowicz, as a co-conspirator to an American citizen being tortured by a police department, will swing at his side.
I’d enjoy the matinee if I weren’t so exhausted.
When Wallowicz guides me outside, stiff and formal, Rachel stays with me long enough to take me to the front entrance before remaining behind to file complaints.
Niven’s hovering there, waiting for me.
I shoot him a kind smile. “I appreciate your help so much, officer.”
“You’re welcome.” His gaze drifts over my head and back to the station. “Rachel Laker’s your attorney?”
“Yes.” Perplexed, I ask, “Didn’t you wait for her in the foyer?”
He dismisses that. “Her reputation’s well known. She’s an attorney for criminals.”
“And? That’s what lawyers are for.”
“She helps bad people get off.”
Perplexed by his take on the situation, I blink bleary eyes and hold up a hand to stall him from doling out any more words of so-called wisdom that’ll just piss me off. “Today, she helped a good person. I’m tired, Officer Niven. I want to go home.”
His mouth tightens, his censure clear. It’s strange how he looks at me. As if by acquiring Rachel’s services, I’ve let him down.
Me, letting a total stranger down.
WTAF?
Pushing the notion aside, I give him a wave that he ignores in favor of dipping his chin at me and I descend the few steps to the sidewalk.
There, I see an SUV waiting about five hundred yards away from the station. Engine running. Lights on.
Recognizing the plates from one of the vehicles my guards use, I begin strolling over to it. My pace is relaxed. The same as my expression—calm. Inside, I’m roiling. The fury bubbling in my veins is close to exploding, but knowing that I’m almost away from that shitshow helps.
The back door slides open upon my approach, but a hand cups my elbow. My head whips to the side in fear, then I sag. “Oh, Rachel. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, of course. All set.” She escorts me to the vehicle. When Maxim spots us both through the open door, his brow furrows. “Try not to lose her this time,” she grates out, tone cooler than a January day in the Arctic. “Mr. Lyanov.”
I gape at her, at her fearlessness, at the bitter disregard she managed to imbue in his name.
Maxim’s nostrils flare but he concedes to her with a stiff: “Ms. Laker.”
I clear my throat when the staring contest grows crazy long. “Rachel? Maxim?”
Rachel presses a kiss to my cheek. “Don’t be a stranger, sweetheart.”
Surprised, I watch as she stalks off in six-inch-high stiletto heels and a pants suit so sharp it’d cut through glass.
My girl crush doesn’t have long to form, however.
“Thank fuck,” Maxim growls as he drags me into the car and straight onto his lap, arms immediately sliding around my waist. “Get us out of here, Georgi.”
“Take us to the brownstone,” I correct.
Maxim frowns but nods when Georgi catches his eye.
The privacy screen lifts and embarrassment and discomfort have me pushing myself off Maxim’s lap to take a seat opposite him.
“Korovka?”
I hear his wariness. I see his relief. I respond to neither. I feel like a hand grenade with the pin newly detached.
“You have a mole.”
The relief in his expression immediately fades, ire replacing it. His scowl is the lit match tossed onto kindling that will burn down the police station I just left.
And it lets me breathe easier.