CHAPTER ELEVEN
Amelia Junehart
The Mistress Interrogated
I was at home, trying to process everything that had happened, when there was a knock on my door.
I opened it to find two detectives standing there— both with serious expressions.
"Amelia Junehart?" the woman asked.
"Yes?"
"I'm Detective Pewls, and this is Detective Hillbrush. We need to ask you some questions about Henrik Mikelson."
My stomach dropped. "What about him?"
"Can we come in?"
I stepped aside, and they walked into my apartment. I closed the door, my hands shaking.
"Ms. Junehart, what's your relationship with Henrik Mikelson?" Detective Hillbrush asked.
"We're... friends."
"Friends?" Detective Pewls raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Mikelson told us you're having an affair."
I felt my face flush. "Yes. Okay, yes. We've been seeing each other for a few months."
"Does his wife know?"
"I don’t know."
"Where were you this evening?"
"I was with Henrik and then here. At home. Why?"
"Can anyone verify that?"
"No, I was alone. What's this about?"
Detective Hillbrush leaned forward. "Bryony Mikelson was run off the road this afternoon. Someone deliberately forced her car into a tree. She's in critical condition."
I felt the blood drain from my face. "What? No. I didn't—I would never—"
"You're having an affair with her husband. That's a pretty good motive."
"I didn't do anything! I was here all afternoon!"
"Do you own a dark blue SUV?"
"No! I drive a Honda Civic. It's parked outside—you can check!"
Detective Pewls made a note. "We will. Ms. Junehart, did you know Bryony Mikelson was afraid someone was following her?"
"Henrik mentioned it once. He said she was being paranoid."
"Did he seem concerned?"
"No. He thought she was overreacting."
"And what did you think?"
I hesitated. "I thought... I thought maybe she was trying to get his attention. To make him feel guilty about the affair."
"So you didn't take her seriously either."
"No," I admitted quietly.
Detective Hillbrush stood. "We'll need you to come down to the station and give a formal statement. And we'll be checking your alibi."
"I didn't do this," I said desperately. "I swear, I didn't hurt her."
"Then you have nothing to worry about," Detective Pewls said.
But I did worry. Because even though I hadn't run Bryony off the road, I was part of the reason she'd been upset, distracted, vulnerable.
I was part of the reason she'd almost died.
At the police station, they put me in an interrogation room and asked me the same questions over and over.
Where was I? What was I doing? Did I have any contact with Bryony? Did I know anyone who might want to hurt her?
I answered everything honestly. I had nothing to hide—at least, not about the accident.
But I couldn't shake the guilt.
Henrik and I had been so wrapped up in our affair, so focused on our own pleasure, that we'd ignored the warning signs. We'd dismissed Bryony's fears as paranoia.
And now she was in a coma.
"Ms. Junehart," Detective Hillbrush said, "did Henrik ever talk about his wife's family?"
"Not really. He said she didn't have much family. That she'd run away from home when she was younger."
"Did he mention her brother?"
"No. Why?"
"Her brother is Luca Carmine. Does that name mean anything to you?"
I shook my head. "No. Should it?"
"He's a known organized crime figure. We're looking into whether someone from his world might have targeted Bryony."
My eyes widened. "Henrik's wife is connected to the mob?"
"It appears so. Did he ever mention anything about that?"
"No. He never said anything about her having mob connections."
Detective Pewls leaned forward. "Ms. Junehart, I'm going to ask you this directly. Did you have anything to do with Bryony Mikelson's accident?"
"No. I swear on my life, I didn't."
"Do you know anyone who might have?"
"No."
They asked me a few more questions, then finally let me go.
As I walked out of the police station, I felt sick.
I'd been so stupid. So selfish.
I'd helped destroy a marriage, and now Bryony was fighting for her life.
And even if I hadn't physically hurt her, I was still responsible.
I pulled out my phone and stared at Henrik's number.
I should call him. I should apologize, should tell him I was sorry for everything.
But what good would that do?
Sorry wouldn't bring Bryony back. Sorry wouldn't undo the damage we'd caused.
I put my phone away and walked to my car.
I didn't know if Bryony would survive. But if she did, I hoped she'd leave Henrik and find someone who actually deserved her.
Because he sure as hell didn't.
And neither did I.