Chapter 20 #2
I got up abruptly and looked at the screen.
Cecil was right; a burly uniformed officer was downstairs, glaring into the hidden security camera right above my doorbell.
Behind the cop stood two other men, one older, in his fifties, with a bald head, square face and tiny piggy eyes, the other younger, thinner, with a pointed chin and receding light-brown hair.
Neither of them were in uniform, instead, they wore trench coats over slightly crumpled shirts and dress pants.
Both of them stood back from the door, motionless, but their eyes roamed everywhere restlessly.
They might as well have been wearing t-shirts that said I’m a detective. “Violet, can you give me the door intercom?”
An ugly handset popped up right next to the screen. I picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“Susan Moore?” The uniformed cop shoved his hard face next to the intercom by my doorbell and gave it a hard stare.
Cecil slammed his espresso martini down on the table. “Who's asking?” he shouted. I elbowed him, and he butted me back. “We need to know if they’re cops or strippers, Chosen, so we know whether or not to let them in.”
The cop, obviously hearing him, glared at the camera. “Susan Moore, we have a warrant to search your apartment.”
I squeaked. “A warrant?”
“Open up. Now.”
I backed away from the screen, my hands shaking. Oh no, this was bad. I remembered exactly what it was like to get arrested. You see it on TV every day and think oh, that doesn’t seem so bad.
But when there’s a burly man behind you, forcefully wrenching your hands back behind you, clamping them in cold metal, hissing at you to stop fucking moving and shut the fuck up?—
My mind scattered; I couldn’t gather my thoughts. “What do I do?” I breathed out.
Suddenly, Donovan was beside me. “Do not be afraid.” One of his huge arms wound around my shoulders and he pulled me in, burying my face in his chest. “I will take care of this.”
“You can’t kill them, Donovan.” I had to live in this city after this was all over. If the cops had a warrant to search my home, that meant there was a paper trail, and that paper trail wasn’t just going to disappear. They were here for a reason.
“I was not going to,” he muttered, his lips against my temple.
“Liar,” Cecil snorted, draining his martini. “I saw you pull your daggers.”
“I am merely going to comfort you during this time. I see you tremble, and I know what it means. You have the PTSD. You are being reminded of your trauma when the police arrested you before.”
I nodded shakily. “I know why they’re here. We need to get rid of them quickly.”
“I got this.” Cecil clip-clopped out of the kitchen, heading towards the drawing room. “Relax. Violet, please reconstruct the Chosen’s tiny apartment around the front door and let the detectives inside. If they want to search your home, let’s reduce the floorplan a little.”
Donovan took my hand, and we followed him. By the time we got to the drawing room, the little boxy shape of my former apartment was already in place, taking up one small corner around the front door.
A harsh bang came from within. I flinched. “Open up!”
Donovan turned to me, and, in a devastatingly intimate gesture, cupped my face with both hands.
His eyes glowed. “I do not like seeing you so agitated. I understand that you value diplomacy, and you feel you must follow mortal rules and let them in. Before you do, you should understand this.” His eyes bored into mine.
“You are the Chosen. You are so far above this petty bureaucracy, you are almost divine. You owe them nothing. You could crush them to dust and dance on the ashes of their remains.”
“Thanks, Donovan,” I said weakly. “I love your pep talks. Let’s call that plan B. But it will be fine. I think I know why they’re here, so let’s just get this over with.”
“I will come with you.” He squeezed my hand.
I nodded shakily and glanced up at him. “Please don’t kill any of them.”
“You have my word. I will not kill anyone.” He added something under his breath.
The door banged again. I pointed at him. “No maiming, either.”
“Spoilsport,” Cecil chuckled, reclining back on a chaise-lounge underneath the window. He’d somehow managed to make himself another espresso martini. At least one of us was relaxed.
I opened the little door in front of me and walked into a replica of my old apartment. The door behind me melted away. Donovan leaned against the wall, his arms folded over his chest.
“Susan Moore, open up!”
I took a deep breath, slid the chain on the door, cracked it open, and looked out into the hallway. This time, the two plain-clothes men—the detectives—were in front. Two more uniformed cops stood behind them, further down the hallway, both looking in opposite directions.
I smiled politely, even though my heart was pounding in my chest. Old images flashed into my brain—red and blue lights blinding me, the stinging ache of tight handcuffs around my wrists. The confusion, the desperate panic.
I swallowed it all down. I am a strong, resilient woman. The past does not define me. The past is in the past, only the now matters. “Can I help you?”
“Detective Striker.” The older bald man flashed his badge. “This is detective Combes.” The younger man narrowed his eyes and flipped a wallet open with swift, practiced movements. “We have a warrant to search your apartment.”
“What for?”
Striker curled his lip. “I think you already know, Ms. Moore.” He nodded towards the chain. “Remove the lock now, or we will have to smash your door open.”
All of a sudden, a chime rang in my ears. His coarse attempt at bullying me felt like a bucket of cold water splashed over my head, snapping me back to reality.
I wasn’t some confused, scared little girl. I was Susan fucking Moore. I’d survived being roughly handcuffed and thrown into the back of a police car before, so I’d already been through the worst that the world could throw at me.
Now, things were different. I had a brutally handsome fae warrior prince in my corner—quite literally—and he wasn’t going to let anyone manhandle me. I was a survivor. The past was in the past. And no matter what happened right now, nothing was ever going to catch me off guard.
The smile dropped from my face, and I glared right back at the detective. “Wow. So professional. I hope you haven’t forgotten that you actually have to give me the warrant first, detective, before you bash my door down?”
Striker narrowed his piggy eyes. The younger detective—Combs—whipped out a folded sheath of paper and waved it at me. “Right here.”
I lifted a brow and held out my hand. “Hand it over, then.”
He held it out in front of him. He was still standing five feet away from the door. It was a power move—he wanted me to remove the chain and reach for the warrant, so Striker could barrel his way inside, throwing me off-guard.
I sighed. “Gentlemen, please don’t play these games. It’s so undignified of you. Do I have to explain your own procedures to you? You have to hand me the warrant, so I can read it. Then I will let you come inside.”
Striker’s square jowls wobbled. Point one to me—I had embarrassed him. “Give her the warrant, Combs.”
The younger detective shambled forward and thrust the papers in through the crack in the door. I took it, unfolded it, and quickly scanned the documents.
It was exactly what I thought—they were looking for Audrina. Looks like Jessica had filed a complaint, and a judge had decided that there was enough evidence to issue a warrant to search my home.
Audrina was underage. Even if she was here voluntarily, the charge would be kidnapping.
I sighed and pulled the chain off the door. “Come on in.” I backed up into the kitchenette, standing beside Donovan in the corner of the tiny space, his arms crossed over his chest.
Both detectives moved to swagger inside. Striker walked in first and froze when he saw Donovan. “Who are you?”
I answered. “That’s not your concern.”
“We have a warrant?—”
“To search my apartment. You don’t have cause to question any of my guests.”
Striker didn’t back down; he glared at Donovan.
The two uniformed cops behind them lined up to enter but pulled up short when they realized they wouldn’t fit. Awkwardly, they shuffled on their feet in the hallway, unsure.
A little bleating voice whispered in my ear. “Chosen.”
I almost jumped out of my skin. Right beside me, a hole had opened up in the wall—I could see Cecil’s bright-blue eye peering in. “We have a problem.”
Another one?
“There’s someone else ringing your doorbell,” Cecil breathed out. “A very skinny woman, about your age, with a blonde pixie-cut. She’s wearing Armani.”
I grimaced. My lawyer, Courtney. This was terrible timing.
If she came in here and saw detectives searching my house, looking for a missing teenage girl, she would jump to all sorts of conclusions.
“Give me two minutes, then let her up,” I breathed out in the direction of the hole. Cecil nodded; the hole disappeared.
Combs looked around. “Is this it?” He craned his neck, looking into my bathroom. “Is this your whole place?”
“This is it. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll leave you to your search.” I grabbed Donovan’s hand. “My guest and I have other plans, so make yourselves at home.”
“You can’t leave.”
“Are you detaining me?” I arched my brow.
“Listen here, Ms. Moore,” Striker snapped. “I don’t think you know how serious this is. We saw the footage of Audrina Morningside entering this building, so we know she’s here somewhere.”
“Well.” I waved my hand around the tiny room. “Feel free to look around.”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“Good for you,” I said, as I took Donovan’s hand, and led him out the door, closing it behind me.
Multitasking. I was an expert at it. This was my jam. “Violet,” I whispered. “Do you think you can keep them in there for a bit? And can you make me a replica apartment?”