Chapter 100
Davian
Witness
Crime Scene Mystery Investigation
RealTunesStudio
My gaze burned into the clear blue eyes of the tall, broad-shouldered, yet athletically slender, cold-blond man, whose immaculate black luxury suit beneath the dark blue coat fit like a tailor-made suit, until it wandered over the dark blue tie and settled on the tiny dark blue floral embroidery that adorned the black handkerchief in his breast pocket beneath the open coat.
His hands were clasped. And of course he was wearing black leather gloves.
“You”
The guy had some nerve showing up at my front door, though it didn’t leave me cold that someone as obviously influential as he was had my address.
Lara really had to move out of here.
“Good evening, Mr. Rydell,” the man said with a deeply relaxed, though serious, smile, as if he hadn’t followed me in Richmond two months ago and had previously given me false information at the cemetery. “If I might ask you to get into my car.”
My eyebrows shot up, and I automatically looked past him toward the black Audi A6 C4 at the roadside before my gaze wandered back to him.
What the hell?
“And why exactly should I do that?”
I was on the verge of telling him to better stay away from this house and never show up again, but he was quicker.
“Because I know you want to see Mr. Richter and Mr. Fitzek one last time before they face the consequences of their actions.”
Something inside me stiffened. Something deeply radical.
That was what it triggered when I heard those men’s names.
What had he just said?
“What consequences?”
I stepped outside through the door crack, not caring that I was wearing only sweatpants and one of my worn-out T-shirts.
The man held my gaze. Remained silent.
“You won’t tell me anything until I get in your car,” I said, and the professional smile returned.
Something about this whole situation smelled fishy.
Why would he be able to take me to those two? They were in a high-security prison. Besides, he had no reason to help me…
I clenched my teeth, my eyes automatically narrowing to slits.
What exactly was he up to?
I looked back at his car, then at him, shoving my hands deeper into my pants pockets.
“What guarantees do I have that you weren’t sent by one of those corrupt bastards?”
Arnold had his connections. And I was certain he would leave no stone unturned to get out of this prison, perhaps even hurting people who were a thorn in his side.
Monica.
“You don’t have to accept this offer,” the man eventually said, unclasping his hands and turning away from me. “I just thought it would be in your best interest to see that justice is served.”
With a measured nod, he stepped off my porch.
My jaw tightened, and the anger I thought I had vented on my wall returned, along with images of Joseph and Arnold looking the way they would after I did what I’d done to my furniture.
Revenge. There was nothing else in my head when I thought of these men but that word.
And even if Arnold had sent him, what if this was my only chance to get close to this bastard, to make him pay. To make Joseph pay.
“Wait.”
Longing
Gustavo Santaolalla
Daniel Bellrose steered the car with a deeply relaxed yet watchful gaze across the intersections of the two-lane highways, while twilight set in and I wondered how I had ended up in the passenger seat of this shady man’s car.
Adrenaline rushed through my body. A feeling I hadn’t believed I still possessed. A feeling that seemed to carry a certain addictive quality, because it felt intoxicating, overshadowing the inner emptiness.
I had quickly thrown on one of my last clean white shirts, black chinos, and decent shoes, and grabbed my black coat, had ignored my battered face in the bathroom mirror, and left a note for my daughter on the kitchen table.
Although I was sure I would come back, something told me that this trip could take unexpected turns. A risk I was willing to take if it would give me a chance at revenge.
They had torn my family apart. Torn me apart.
I wouldn’t hesitate, would try to make sure those men who posed a threat to the last people I cared about were out of the way.
The pocket knife was concealed in my shoe, though I doubted it would make it past the guards’ inspection.
There had once been a great deal of well-trained rationality in me. But Quill had swept that away with her.
She had laid bare my fragile skeleton, stripped of all the heavy gold lacquer that this society had applied layer by layer over the years. Gilded virtues that had never been my own.
Would my feather approve of this? Would she be proud of me?
That was all that mattered.
Tears welling up spotted the open door through which the adrenaline had found its way out from behind the veil of my emotional numbness, but I fought against them, gazing at the horizon that wanted to remind me of that evening when she had lain in my arms. The setting sun in her eyes…
When the tears threatened to win the battle, I stopped fighting, let them come, and closed my eyes.
Something landed on my lap, and I immediately opened my eyes.
A pale blue silk handkerchief with shimmering floral patterns.
Confused, I looked at Mr. Bellrose, who, sunglasses still on, was focused on the road.
“Grief is an underestimated key to human vulnerability,” he said. “It lays bare a person’s core. No moment is more convenient for getting under someone’s skin than that of loss.”
Who was this man? A profiler – hired by whoever – involved in the Troy case? Someone doing the well-paid dirty work for others? Or a crazy rich guy using his influence to play the good Samaritan?
“I know you’re not a lawyer,” I murmured, taking the handkerchief but folding it up and letting my tears dry on their own.
Maybe I was being too paranoid, but not even that expensive handkerchief seemed trustworthy.
“I know.”
Great.
So there really weren’t many reassuring options left.
“Who the hell are you, and what do you have to do with all this?”
As always, he took his time, as if he were carefully considering every answer, even though on the surface it seemed as though he already had every answer at the ready.
“There are many things in this world that knowing about is neither useful nor contributes to one’s mental well-being.”
Mental well-being.
I snorted.
My mental well-being had vanished forever since New Year’s Eve 1995.
“Do you work for the government?”
“I work for myself and my family.”
His family.
And suddenly it dawned on me.
What if he was one of the people whose lives had been ruined by Arnold’s sick attempts at genocide? What if this man here was also seeking revenge?
But what did I have to do with it, then?
“Why is it so important to you that I come along?”
“I need a witness.”
He steered the car smoothly onto the wide highway, which I recognized from my visits to the prison district during my time as a criminal defense attorney.
“A witness for what?”
His jaw tensed almost imperceptibly. The first time I saw a negative emotion on his face.
“That those who wronged my family will never again be in a position to come near them.”
“Arnold wronged your fa…”
“You’re asking more questions than I can answer.”
Frustration overwhelmed me.
He wants revenge. He doesn’t work for Arnold. Focus on that.
“Here.”
He pulled something out of his inner coat pocket and tossed it to me.
A plastic bag containing a…
Realization hit me far too quickly as I stared through the illegible crime scene markings and numbers at the razor blade covered in a brown crust.
“What the…”
The tears came back too quickly, simply dripping down onto the bag.
“I didn’t want to throw it away.”
Disturbed, I looked at Mr. Bellrose, who was calmly gazing down the long street.
Unable to say anything in response, I stared at him, then back at the razor blade.
There were so many thoughts in my head, so many overwhelming emotions that wanted to come out but couldn't.
When I couldn't take it anymore, I shoved the plastic bag into my coat pocket and stared into nothingness.
Her ticket to Wonderland.
Mr. Bellrose pulled into the parking lot of the massive prison, where he handed an ID to a man at the gate, and the man let us through without a word.
“Now, about the rules.”
He steered the car smoothly with one hand around the tight turns of the parking lot.
“First. The pocket knife in your shoe stays in this car.”
Let The Chase Begin
RealTunesStudio
The detailed plan and all the rules I had to follow so he could get me into the cells felt like a reckless suicide mission.
Not that my life meant anything to me at this point, but ending up in jail was the last thing on my agenda.
I knew this place, knew about the countless armed staff members, the endless ID and bag checks I'd had to endure whenever I had wanted to visit my clients back then, not to mention the strict visiting hours.
I'd had so many questions, but hadn’t been able to ask a single one because I had been trying – my hand clenched tightly around the plastic bag in my pocket – to focus on his words.
And it wasn’t until the guards at every checkpoint nodded to Mr. Bellrose as if they knew him, and let me pass through the security check at the main entrance without a word or even a second glance, until we were both led further and further into the most secure areas of the building, that I realized this man walking next to me was someone Arnold shouldn’t have crossed.
After ten more flights of stairs, we entered a sterile-looking hallway I had never set foot in before, and I was already expecting that I had been lured into an ambush, when we stopped in front of a steel door marked 8756 Fitzek.
Only now did I realize that I would actually see this man again. And something inside me wanted to turn back on the spot and make sure that this deranged criminal never again tainted my field of vision.
But this was necessary.
Where Are You Two Going
Mr. Kamera
I clenched my jaw as they unlocked the door and led us into a modern, equally sterile room with harsh lighting, containing nothing but a table.