Authors: Jenna Black
My gut cramped with fear as I recognized the good cop/bad cop tactics. If you’d told me
before tonight that Blake Porter would make an effective bad cop, I’d probably have laughed at
you. He was just too goddamn pretty to be scary, with his smooth, flawless skin that probably
never grew more than peach fuzz, and his Cupid’s bow mouth. But right now, the absolute last
thing I wanted was to be left alone with him. Unfortunately, my story sounded unbelievable even
to my own ears, so why should these guys believe it?
“Why were you here to meet Emmitt?” Anderson prompted.
I decided that no matter how weird my story was going to sound under the circumstances,
I had no alternative but to start talking and hope for the best.
Slowly, trying not to stammer, I told them a carefully edited version of how and why
Emmitt had hired me, leaving out any mention of crazy cultists. Anderson’s face gave away
nothing, but Blake made repeated little snorts of disbelief and rolled his eyes a couple of times.
When I explained that Emmitt had asked me to meet him in front of the gates, and that
I’d found the gates open and driven through, both men fell silent, the silence an oppressive
weight that made me want to sink under the bed and disappear. I forced myself to keep talking,
though I didn’t want to relive the nightmare of seeing Emmitt standing there in the road with that
little smile.
“So what you’re saying is that it was an accident?” Anderson asked when I finished
talking.
I blinked at him. “Of course it was an accident! At least on my part. Did you think I ran
him down on purpose?”
“What do you mean, at least on your part?”
I was momentarily taken aback by the question. I thought I’d made it perfectly clear
when I’d explained. But despite everything Emmitt had told me, I was now convinced these
people were actually friends of his, and it must have been shocking for them to hear that he’d
basically killed himself. Maybe they didn’t want to hear it and had subconsciously filtered that
part out.
“I mean he just stood there in the middle of the road, looking at me and smiling, waiting
for me to hit him. I don’t know if he could have gotten out of the way if he’d tried, but he didn’t
even try.”
There was a howl of rage from just outside the room. The door slammed open with such
force that Blake, who was standing in front of it, went flying. He hit the floor hard and came up
cursing.
Jamaal stormed into the cell in the same towering rage I’d seen by the side of the road. If
he was suffering any ill effects from his tussle with Logan, I saw no sign of them.
His eyes locked on me, and he came at me like a guided missile. Leader or not, Anderson
scrambled out from between us, leaving me to fend for myself.
If Anderson was the good cop, and Blake was the bad cop, Jamaal was the complete
psycho cop. I’m physically fit and fairly athletic. I also know enough basic self-defense not to be
completely useless in a fight. But I would have been no match for Jamaal even without my
injuries. I couldn’t even manage to get to my feet before he was on me, grabbing me by the throat.
I dropped the pillow and tried to loosen Jamaal’s grip, digging my fingernails into his
hand as hard as I could. I’d have gone for his face, only his arms were longer than mine and I
couldn’t reach. When clawing at him didn’t work, I tried to separate one of his fingers from the
herd and throw all my strength into peeling it away, willing to break it if necessary. My efforts
didn’t bother him in the least, and he hauled me off of the cot until my feet dangled.
I stopped trying to loosen his fingers and merely held on to his arm, trying to pull myself
up a bit so I didn’t strangle. It was a useless effort, and his hand squeezed hard enough to cut off
my air completely.
Still easily holding me off the floor, he stepped around the cot so he could slam me
against the wall so hard I saw stars. Or maybe the stars were just because I couldn’t breathe. My
struggles weakened as my brain starved for oxygen.
Anderson came to stand beside Jamaal, his expression one of gentle concern. Concern for
Jamaal, that is, not for me.
“She can’t talk while you’re choking her.”
Jamaal bared his teeth in a feral smile. “That’s a shame.” He pulled me forward then
slammed me into the wall again to show how heartbroken he was. I could hardly believe I hadn’t
passed out from lack of oxygen yet.
“We need to get answers out of her,” Anderson said, still in that mild voice.
“You can get answers out of her when I’m finished!” Jamaal snarled, and the look on
Anderson’s face hardened.
“I’m giving you an order, Jamaal. Let go. Now!”
“Fuck you!”
Across the room, Blake cursed again. The whole mild-mannered leader act Anderson had
been putting on suddenly dissolved. His back straightened, his eyes flashed with anger, and his
face took on an expression that said someone was about to die—or
wish
for death.
“Wrong answer,” Anderson said, his voice dropping about an octave and filled with a
power that made my teeth ache.
My vision was beginning to fade around the edges, but I saw Anderson reach out and
clap his hand on Jamaal’s shoulder, right at the base of his neck. The hatred faded from Jamaal’s
face as his eyes widened in what looked like alarm, though I couldn’t see why. Then suddenly,
he let go of me and screamed.
My feet hit the floor. I crumpled to my knees, gagging and coughing as I tried to draw air
into my lungs.
Jamaal collapsed, too, trying to pull away from Anderson’s grip as he did. Anderson must
have been stronger than he looked, maintaining his grip as he lowered himself into a crouch so
he could keep his hand on Jamaal’s shoulder. Anderson’s face had turned to stone, all expression
bleeding away as Jamaal continued to scream in obvious pain. In that moment, Anderson looked
almost inhuman, an ice-cold predator who could kill without hesitation or remorse.
Blake appeared in the periphery of my vision. He moved with caution, but he didn’t look
scared or surprised by whatever Anderson was doing. “Go easy on him, boss,” he said with a
wince of sympathy. “He just lost his best friend.”
The expression on Anderson’s face thawed, a hint of humanity returning to his eyes, but
he didn’t let go. Jamaal’s screams were weakening. What the hell was Anderson doing that
caused such intense pain? His grip didn’t even look all that tight.
“He’ll pass out soon enough,” Anderson said, and moments later Jamaal’s whole body
went limp. Anderson let go of his shoulder, and even on Jamaal’s coffee-colored skin, I could
see the bright red hand mark where Anderson had been touching him.
“Sorry, my friend,” Anderson said so softly I barely heard him. The stone-cold killer was
gone, and the mild-mannered human being was back. He stood up and looked at Blake. “Put him
next door,” he said. “Then gather the troops in my study.”
Blake didn’t look happy with the order, but he complied, gently picking up Jamaal’s limp
body and carrying him out of the room. Anderson looked down his nose at me. I was still
coughing, but the gagging seemed to have stopped, and my vision had cleared.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he told me. “Think carefully about your story and
whether you’d like to amend it. Unless you’re a very skilled actress, I’m pretty sure you were not
familiar with the power I just used against Jamaal. If I come back later and don’t like your
answers, I’ll let you experience it firsthand.”
I swallowed hard. So much for the “good cop” act.
Without a backward glance, he marched out the door, slamming it behind him. Once
again, the locks clicked shut.
No doubt about it. I was in deep shit.
FOUR
My throat hurt every
time I swallowed, but other than that, I didn’t feel as bad as I
expected after nearly being choked to death. Especially considering that beforehand I’d been
seriously injured in a car accident, then been kicked in the face, then nearly perished from
exposure.
Do you still think you need an ambulance?
Anderson’s voice echoed in my head.
Rubbing my bruised throat, I sat down on the edge of the cot and tried to absorb
everything I’d seen and heard tonight.
Emmitt, appearing in front of my car from out of nowhere.
Logan, lifting Jamaal off his feet and flinging him all the way across the road and into the
trees beyond.
My wound sealing itself with invisible stitches.
Anderson’s fire-red handprint on Jamaal’s shoulder.
I’ve never been much into all that woo-woo stuff, but either I was having the longest,
weirdest dream in the history of mankind, or something decidedly woowoo was going on.
I hoped for the former, but suspected the latter.
I looked down at the gash in my side and was only dully surprised to see the entire line
scabbed over. I imagined the
Twilight Zone
music playing in the background, then shook off the
thought before I made myself hysterical.
I decided to make a cursory examination of my cell. I tried the door, of course, but the
sound of those locks clicking shut had been no illusion. I tried the sink and discovered that yes,
blessedly, I could get hot water. I picked up my bloody, ruined sweater, rinsed out as much of the
blood as possible, then used the sleeve like a washcloth to clean myself up.
I was painfully aware that Anderson was planning to come back and question me later.
The kid gloves were going to come off, but I couldn’t figure out what he wanted to hear. If I
thought about how our next interview was going to go, all I would do was send myself into a
panic. Instead I stripped the sheets off the cot and rinsed them in the sink. Then I flipped the
mattress over and was relieved to find I hadn’t soaked it through. With nothing left to do, I
reluctantly lay down, terrified of being alone with my thoughts.
I hadn’t been lying down for more than five minutes when I heard footsteps out in the
hall again, and I was struck with a far more virulent terror. I shot to my feet, heart pounding and
adrenaline flooding my system as I waited in dread for Anderson to finally carry out his threat.
But when the door opened, it wasn’t Anderson after all.
The word that had first come to my mind when Emmitt had shown me a picture of
Maggie Burnham was
statuesque
. I guessed her height at about five-eleven, and she was built
like an athlete. She had absolutely gorgeous curly auburn hair, and a pretty, heart-shaped face.
She wasn’t looking her best tonight, though. Not with those red-rimmed eyes and the
sorrowful droop of her shoulders. I had no clue what her real relationship with Emmitt had been,
but it was clear she was grieving.
“Hi,” she said, smiling weakly. “I’m Maggie.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said automatically, though I mentally grimaced at the empty
pleasantry. “I’m Nikki Glass.”
She nodded. “I thought maybe you could use this.” She held out a plush terrycloth robe,
and I was so happy I could have hugged her. Considering that she was mourning Emmitt and that
I’d been the instrument of his death, I wouldn’t have been surprised if her first move had been to slap me.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the robe from her outstretched hand. My voice came out a little
scratchy. I told myself that it was an aftereffect of Jamaal’s attempt to choke me to death, not a
sign that I was about to burst into tears at the first hint of kindness. Cynically, I couldn’t help
wondering if she’d taken up the mantle of “good cop” now that Anderson had dispensed with it.
Maggie considerately turned her back as I removed my undies and slipped into the robe. I
wouldn’t have died of embarrassment if she hadn’t, but under the circumstances, I was feeling
vulnerable enough to appreciate the gesture. I had to take a deep breath to keep control of my
emotions before I told her it was okay to turn around.
She took in the stripped bed and the wet, still-stained sheets that I’d draped over the sink
to dry, and frowned.
“I see the boys are in major hard-ass mode,” she commented in obvious disapproval. As
far as I’d been able to determine, she was the only woman living here.
I crossed my arms over my chest, pulling the warm, soft robe close around me. “Yeah,
well, they seem to think I killed Emmitt on purpose.” The last word came out in something
almost like a sob as the full weight of what had happened hit me.
I’d killed someone.
No, of course I hadn’t meant to. And from where I was standing, it sure looked like he’d
deliberately put himself in harm’s way. But still … He was dead, and it was my fault.
To my surprise, Maggie stepped forward and gave my shoulder a warm squeeze. “It’s all
right,” she said, though her own eyes shone with unshed tears. “Anderson told us your story. The
boys are all huffing and puffing with conspiracy theories, but I believe you.”
I had to swallow hard a couple of times before I found my voice. “You do? Why?”
She smiled sadly and gestured at the cot. “Why don’t we sit down? This might take a few
minutes.”
We both sat, backs to the wall. I gathered the robe around my legs and wrapped my arms
around my knees.
“You told Anderson that Emmitt hired you to investigate me,” Maggie said.