Chapter 2
Two
Cora
Well, today didn’t go according to plan.
Someone must be screwing with my stars because my horoscope swore I was going to have the best week of my life. Things were changing and I would have untold fortunes landing in my lap.
Bunch of horse shit! I had everything lined up for a slow weekend of illustrating and a little self-love time in the bathtub with some wine to go with my fantastic star reading.
There was not one single line mentioning running for my life.
Yet, here I am.
My throat went bone dry the second I pushed through the front door of the police station fifteen minutes ago. I’ve spent every last minute since wondering if I’ve made yet another mistake.
It smells like three-day-old coffee and floor wax so strong it’s nearly impossible to breathe. I mentally reach for the dead man's paper crushed in my boot and remind myself I’m here because I need to do the right thing.
And no one will kill me as long as I’m here. As options go, it’s the best I have available.
Besides, this is what normal people do. Someone gets murdered behind your flower shop, you go to the police.
The officer at the front desk barely glanced up from his computer when I told him I had a murder to report. A detective passing by pulled me in here.
I straighten my hair and try to erase all evidence of panic from my face just as the door to the waiting room opens and a detective walks back in.
“You doin’ okay, sweetie?” He sets a styrofoam cup in front of me. I take the water and wash back the acid that’s burned the back of my throat since I heard the first gunshot.
“Thank you.” I tuck my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs. “I’m okay, but not the guy behind my flower shop. I assume you checked out my story since you were gone so long, right?”
The detective’s brow rises at the bite of frustration in my tone, but I can’t find it in me to care.
“I’m trying to do the right thing and there are people chasing me.”
The windowless room is small and overheated.
“I see. And how do I know it wasn’t you who killed a man in the back alley of your flower shop?”
Instead of answering his absurd questions, I turn the attention back where it needs to be.
“Please, Nikolai Volkov is a powerful man. You need to post some guard outside the door. Make sure he or his goons can’t get in.
” I’m not naive enough to think he doesn’t have deep connections to every level of authority this city possesses.
The detective holds his hand up for me to be quiet, but I don’t think he understands the level of danger we are all in. “Calm down, miss.”
I drop my feet to the floor and move to the edge of the metal chair.
“I don’t think you understand. Maybe you should even move me to another police station.
You do know Nikolai Volkov, right? Russian Bratva.
Dangerous. Mean as a snake. Killer. I’m not sure where his territory is or how any of that works, but I'm pretty damn sure it won’t take him long to connect the dots and figure out where I’ve gone.
You know, since he and his goons were chasing me. ”
A bowling ball of fear tears through my guts. Maybe I trusted too easily. Again. Sometimes I really do wish I had a pinch of luck on my side.
“He won’t be far behind.”
“Stop being hysterical and start at the top again and run me through every detail.”
I stare at him, mouth gaping open. “No, I don’t think I will. And let’s see who screams like a bitch when he storms in here, Detective.”
That gets a smile out of him, but nothing more helpful.
Just saying those words out loud makes chills erupt all over my body. I press the tips of my fingers to my temple and will the forming headache to recede.
The detective takes an unhurried sip of his coffee, either blind to the fear eating my insides or choosing to ignore it and simply nods. In front of him is a closed folder and to the side is a phone he barely takes his eyes off of.
“Take your time and tell me everything from the beginning," he repeats, all practiced warmth and professional patience. Again, not looking at me once.
I force a smile. “I’ve already done this once, but fine.
” It takes a lot not to sound royally pissed or irritated at not being taken seriously.
Apparently, I don't do such a great job of keeping my emotions off my face or out of my tone because the detective finally pulls his eyeballs off the phone long enough to glare at me.
“Well, young lady, you’ve come in here with a fantastical story about an upstanding citizen of the community. I think you owe me every detail as many times as I ask for it.”
I blink. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I shove back from the table and pace between the door and the back wall. “What? Upstanding?” I stop in front of the detective. “I know you can’t be serious.”
“Take a seat, Ms. Vale. And yes I am. We can go back and forth all night, or you can tell me what I want to know before we ask him to come in and give his side of the story.”
I slice the air between us with a wave of my hand after I get my heart to start working again.
“That can’t happen. Not with me here.”
“It can, now start talking.”
I tell the detective everything. All of it. The alley. The flickering light. The customer who bought roses and walked out the back door. The two tank-sized men. How they shot my customer and then how Nikolai joined in and shot him in the head.
The detective scribbles a couple of things on the note pad and then he’s on his phone texting someone. He does this on and off the whole time I am talking.
When I finish he asks, "How do you know Nikolai Volkov?”
“He is my ex-boyfriend.”
“Ah, so this is revenge against him for dumping you or something? Typical. I see it all the time.”
The detective's face should change to understanding and sympathy here, but that’s not what happens. Instead, smugness pulls at the creases along his forming jowls and crows feet.
I jerk back as if slapped. “What did you say?”
“Revenge from an ex. You get dumped so you retaliate. Typical women shit.”
Red blurs my vision for several seconds.
I cross my arms and tilt my chin up a fraction.
“You must have mommy issues. Can’t keep it hard for the wifey?
Or has she dumped you for the pastor? What are you?
Edging close to your thirty-fifth anniversary.
Things get dull so you pump it in the shower while your wife has fun with the gardener? ”
I usually don’t take hate bait from anyone, but this man has pressed one too many buttons in one night.
Now who is seeing red? Visibly flustered, the detective slams a heavy fist down on the table.
“Now, listen you little–”
“Sorry, Detective. Did I hit a little too close to home? Don't like being judged? Don’t do it to others when you know nothing about them.” I pause and lean in a fraction.
“From where I’m sitting, you don’t deserve your badge, much less the title of detective,” I calmly tell him.
“Now is there a real detective here who can help me or do I need to go see your superior?”
I have no idea if I can even walk out of here given what I’ve already told this man much less call in his superior. Hell, I’m a prime suspect in a murder, right? But the way his face goes pale tells me he doesn’t want his superior in here.
"No need for that." He stands. "Give me a minute. I'm going to make a call and we'll get this sorted out for you."
Mr. Frumpy and Unhappy steps out of the room, and closes the door behind him.
Sorted out? Those two words leave a bad taste in my mouth. Dread sinks in and my palms become sweaty as I mull over how he’s going to sort out anything when I’m telling the man there’s a dead body behind my flower shop.
Deep down the bitter acid burning a hole in my stomach tells me I already know the answer to my questions.
Through the frosted glass I can make out the detective’s silhouette. The phone comes up. His shoulders angle away from me, his free hand cupping the receiver against his chest.
My hand goes to the locket at my throat. I press it flat against my skin and inhale to steady my nerves.
Less than a minute later, the detective comes back, settles into his chair, and slides a business card across the desk.
"We'll look into this, Ms. Vale. Best thing for you right now is to go home, lock your doors. We'll be in touch."
“That’s it? You think I’m lying or something? I’m not.”
“We will be in contact.” His tone is cold, final.
He doesn't take a formal statement, show me photographs or offer me a safe ride home.
He doesn't ask a single follow-up question about the weapon, the two tanks on feet, or why my ex-boyfriend is executing men in alleys.
He just sits there with his hands folded on his desk and a mouth moving with a script someone else wrote for him.
I pick up the card. My thumb runs over the embossed lettering and a bitter laugh scrapes up my throat because the card stock is expensive. Way too heavy for a city employee.
"Thank you," I grind out, but I swear to the Heavens above those two polite words cost me more than anything I've ever spent in my entire life.
The night air slaps my face when I push through the front doors. I'm three steps onto the sidewalk when I look across the street.
Two men stand under a streetlight, loose-shouldered, hands in pockets, doing their best impression of two guys just hanging around at midnight sucking on cigarettes and shooting the breeze.
They're not even trying to hide the fact they are waiting for me. Why would they? I just handed a dirty cop my name and my face on a silver platter. All they have to do is wait for me to go home.
My stomach drops to the soles of my boots.
"Fantastic. Gold star for civic duty, Cora."
I head left and catch them trailing me from the other side of the street.
I walk until the light turns green and releases four lanes of traffic between us.
Then I run.