Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Alyona
“Ma’am, I’m Detective Scott,” a tall man wearing a shirt with rolled-up sleeves says.
“I know you’ve spoken with our police officers, but I’d like to ask you a couple of questions if that’s okay.
” He scrapes the legs of his chair across the floor as he takes a seat opposite me, placing a file and a cup of coffee on the tabletop.
His dark hair is neatly styled and matches the color of his eyes.
A subtle scattering of freckles across his nose seems out of place for such a broad, rugged man.
He’s handsome, and I know all too well how dangerous handsome men can be.
"I'm sorry. Did you want some coffee?" he asks, sliding his steaming cup across the table, the scent wafting toward me.
My mouth is dry and desperate for a drink. When Adam got out of the car at the crash site, I waited inside the car for a second to pop the trunk. It must have got jammed because it didn’t open, luckily my hip dislodged it and the rest is history.
I gingerly take the cup and take a sip, but the sweetness overwhelms me. I nearly spit the syrupy shit back at him.
"Why is there so much sugar in this?" I ask, cringing and smacking my lips at the overly sweet taste. Gross.
"Apologies," he says with a chuckle, a deep, genuine sound that seems to reverberate through the air. "I like my coffee sweet."
There’s something disarming about his voice. It feels inviting and warm, putting me at ease despite the unexpected sugar rush.
“I’ve told the officer everything I know,” I reply, folding my arms and checking the clock on the wall for the tenth time.
I’ve been seated in this bleak, fluorescent-lit interrogation room for hours. I know my baby girl is out there waiting for me with Jeremiah’s mom, who must be reeling from the news of his death and the fact that Adam has been arrested on suspicion of murder.
“I understand, and I know you’ve had a challenging morning. I won’t take up much more of your time.”
Opening the folder, he pulls out some pictures and fans them across the table before me. The images are all of young women with a similar appearance to the nun girl.
“Do you recognize any of these women as the same person you referred to in your statement as Joy? The one you saw leave the club with Mr. Cunningham?” His tone is a mix of curiosity and efficiency.
“No,” I answer honestly. There’s no way they will have an image of her. Joy doesn’t exist. Her name is as fake as my own.
“Are you absolutely certain that the woman you called Joy is indeed the same woman you saw in the trunk of Mr. Cunningham’s car?” he presses, his pen hovering over his notepad.
“Yes, she was a girl from the club that Adam took home,” I say, my voice weary but resolute. I’m repeating myself for what feels like the hundredth time. “I really need to see my baby now. Can we finish this?”
“Almost,” he responds, glancing over my face and then dipping his gaze to my throat. “Do you mind if I ask where your bruises came from?”
Well, damn, I didn’t do as good a job of hiding them as I thought.
Leaning forward, I lower my voice as if fearing it might be overheard, and I’m scared of the consequences of that mistake. “Listen, Detective Scott. Adam has a temper and treats people as property he owns. This included his brother and me. He could get a handsy, if you understand my meaning.”
“Did you ever press charges?” His brow furrows, and there’s a flicker in his jaw.
“And end up like Joy?” I respond with a bitter laugh that catches in my throat. “No, I can’t afford that kind of risk. I have a child to think about.” I swipe at a forced tear that escapes down my cheek, and I see his expression soften, the protective instinct in him surfacing.
“I won’t keep you any longer, ma’am, but I must inform you that this is an active murder investigation. It’s likely we’ll have more questions for you at a later date.” His eyes burn with intensity, emphasizing the gravity of the situation. “Take my card and call if anything comes to mind.”
Looking down at the card, I tap a fingernail over his name.
DETECTIVE DILLON SCOTT.
“Understood.” I nod, trying to remain calm.
When I’m finally allowed to leave, I find Vika in the waiting room with Roza.
“I don’t do this.” She waves a hand, looking down her nose at my precious angel sleeping in her stroller.
“She’s a baby.”
“Exactly, I don’t do babies.” She shudders. “You took your time in there and that man has been staring at me this whole time.”
"I wasn’t at the salon. The police were interrogating me,” I say, my frustration bubbling. Scanning the waiting area, I huff in frustration when I learn who she’s all twisted up over them staring at her. “That man’s badge says chief of police.”
“Well, he’s creepy,” she mutters under her breath, casting a distasteful glance in his direction.
The chief’s piercing gaze feels like he can see right through us. I instinctively move to block his view, positioning myself so he can only see my back. The last thing we need is for him to approach us and start digging into her identity.
“Where is Rosetta?” I frown.
“Is that the grandmother?” she asks, clutching her designer purse like someone is going to try and steal it in a police station.
“Yes, Amelia. Where is she?” I hate using her fake name but keeping who we really are under lock and key right now is paramount.
“She left. Levi called us to come to the station. He said Adam was arrested and they think Jeremiah was killed in a car crash.”
“Yeah, it’s been a shitty day.”
“So…” She’s animated with her movements, and I don’t have the energy for it.
“So, can you take me home?” I pull the blanket away from Roza and drink her in. My sanity. My saving grace. My happiness. My reason for all of this.
“I suppose if you explain what the hell is going on,” Vika hisses, placing a hand on her hip.
“I don’t have all the facts, just what you’ve been told.” I notice Roza’s diaper bag and car seat have been left too. “Where did Rosetta go?”
“I don’t know. My God, Ally. Is Jeremiah actually dead?” she asks, her eyes wide, panic rising in her voice.
“Can you take me home or not?” I ask, shifting my weight from foot to foot. I need to get out of here.
“Fine. But you’re going to spill everything to me.”
As we make our way to her sleek, black convertible, I let out a groan while juggling the stroller and balancing the car seat on my hip. I can't help but notice how she delicately inspects her freshly manicured nails.
“You’ll need to put the roof up,” I mutter, frustration seeping into my tone.
“It’s a summer day! Why would we do that?” She blanches like I’ve suggested something offensive.
“Please, can you just put the roof up? You can lower it again as soon as you drop me off."
I seriously don’t want to argue with her, but she makes it difficult.
She arches an eyebrow, skepticism written all over her face. "Is this about keeping your hair nice?"
This woman isn't for real.
“No, Amelia, I have a child who needs to go in the back, and it will be safer with the roof up.”
“Ugh. This is what I mean about children.” She scrunches her nose in exasperation. “Never having them. Ever.”
“What are you going to do when your betrothed wants to have them?” I tease, imitating her words from the other night, and securing the car seat into the car. My little angel yawns but stays asleep.
I know Maddox wants kids because he talked about it often with Jeremiah, admiring our family unit. If she stays with him, he’s going to get babies out of her.
“Once we’re married, I’ll distract him with other pursuits,” she replies, a hint of mischief in her voice.
Oh God. I’m not even sure what that means, but I am sure I don’t want to know.
“You do realize you can hire nannies, right? We were practically raised by them.” I quirk an eyebrow playfully as I slide into the passenger seat. Her cheeks flush a deep red, and fine lines form around her eyes, revealing her discomfort.
“I’m not going to have nannies around for him to fuck and breed with, Ally. If anything from our past, I’ve learned that lesson.”
“Touché.”
We drive in silence, the steady hum of the engine the only sound between us, and I’m grateful for the reprieve from all the questions.
Once we reach the house, Roza is awake and giggling at one of her soft toys. Vika follows me inside, not carrying anything but her purse. Very helpful.
I gently place Roza in her booster seat at the table. Her eyes sparkle with delight, knowing food will follow. “Are you hungry, my little angel?” I ask, stroking a hand down her cheek.
I head to the kitchen to cut up some fruit, returning a minute later and placing it on her tray.
“Are you going to be all right?” Vika asks, her voice laced with fake concern as she purses her lips. “I don’t handle these situations very well.”
I can’t help but chuckle slightly. “Death, Vika? You don’t handle death well? Haven’t you lost a few boyfriends along the way?”
The thought brings a smirk to my lips. I have vivid memories of the numerous failed relationships she’s navigated, each leaving its mark, or a body.
“That was the old me. Don’t be bitter, Ally, it’s unbecoming,” she retorts and jabs a finger in my direction. “And stop using that freaking name.”
I cover Roza’s eyes and give Vika the middle finger.
“Charming,” she replies, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Do you need me to hang around, or can I go?”
She’s such an asshole. “We’ll be fine. Thanks.”
“Right, well, let me know what’s happening as soon as you find anything out.”
“Of course, you’ll be my first point of contact.”
Glancing at me with a mix of suspicion and concern, she says, “I can’t tell if you’re for real or just being difficult.”
“Difficult. Always,” I confirm with a smile.
She rolls her eyes and wiggles her fingers to signal her departure.
Once the door closes, I rip off the jacket I’m wearing and lift my top to check on my cut. It’s been on fire for the last few hours. There’s bruising discoloring the skin around the bandage and it feels hot to touch. Perfect.
“What a mess I’m in, my little angel,” I coo down at Roza.
My heart swells with affection when she giggles. She’s all I need.
“Just me and you from here on out,” I tell her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her hair is a beautiful cascade of golden curls that seems to have a mind of their own, always wild and free, just like her precocious, spirited self. Rosetta does a great job of looking after Roza’s hair.
I should call Rosetta. She’s who I genuinely feel sorry for in all this mess.
“Mama!” Roza grins at me, banana smeared all over her cheeks. She enthusiastically begins smacking her spoon off the tray. “Up! Up!”
Removing the tray, I pick her up into my arms, ignoring the pain it causes across my stomach and arms, snuggling my face into her neck. “Bath time, angel.”
After sleeping on Roza’s bedroom floor next to her crib last night, my body hates me. Despite resting for most of the day today, I feel like crap.
I’m so grateful Roza is too young to understand everything that’s going on, and that Jeremiah wasn’t hands-on with her, so she won’t really miss him.
It’s harsh but true. Today has been almost normal with our usual routine together.
The familiar sounds of her giggles and the soft crinkle of her favorite toys fill the room until my phone starts ringing and buzzing nonstop on the nearby dresser.
Reality forces its way back in.
“Mama loves you,” I tell her, placing her in her crib.
“Snuggle your pretty little dolly and get some sleep, baby girl.” I lean down to kiss her soft forehead and pull her favorite fluffy blanket over her small body.
Her thumb finds its way into her mouth as her wide, trusting eyes watch me snatch up my phone and leave the room.
I glance at my phone and see a flood of messages and missed calls from more people than I actually know. Some ask for information, while others offer condolences, and the weight of their words press down on me. News spreads fast. The police haven’t even confirmed that it’s Jeremiah’s remains.
My stomach churns when my phone begins ringing in my hand from a withheld number. I take a deep breath, steeling myself before answering. “Hello?”
“Ally.”
Adam.
Shit.
“What the fuck happened? I know you had something to do with this.” His voice drips with accusation, each word sending a tremor through my already frayed nerves.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why did you do that to her?” I manage to inject real fear into my question, hoping my confusion will make him question that maybe I really didn’t have anything to do with any of this mess.
It doesn’t.
“You’ve made a big fucking mistake, woman. I’m coming for you.” His tone is menacing, and I can almost picture the simmering anger in his eyes.
“In twenty years to life?” I shoot back, my bravado being my freaking curse.
“I won’t go down for this. I have an alibi.” He sounds confident, almost too confident.
“Good luck with that,” I reply, trying to maintain my composure.
“I don’t need fucking luck. I have money.”
My heart races, pounding in my chest like a drum. The world around me seems to sway, the walls closing in and rushing back out as if the house is reacting to the weight of his threats.
“I’ll be seeing you real soon,” he threatens in a deceptively calm voice.
The line dies, and his departing words hang in the air like a darkening storm.
Sweat breaks out across my forehead, and the room begins to fade. I don’t feel so good.