“Yes.”
“Why did you hang up before giving more details?”
“I—” I gulped. “I dropped my phone. It hung up by accident.”
Gil winced, understanding the mammoth problem he’d dumped me with.
I’d never been good under pressure. And this was a hell of a lot of pressure. I’d also never been a good liar. Not even at school when all teenagers were flexible with the truth about where they were and who they hung out with.
The woman huffed under her breath. “Do you know who tried to take you?”
“No.”
“But you said you managed to get the license plate number?”
I looked quickly at Gil.
His throat worked, but he kept an aloof, almost uninterested look on his face. Striding forward to stand by my side, he remained stoic and icy—nothing more than a boss supporting a troubled employee.
I stiffened as the male officer joined us, looking at me and then Gil. He scribbled notes onto a small pad, his forehead furrowed.
“You’re Gilbert Clark? The owner of Total Trickery?” the man asked.
Gil nodded curtly. “I am.”
“Did you see what happened?”
“I did.”
“And?” The guy waved his pen in the air, fishing for information.
“I fought the guy off.” He gestured to the blood on his clothes, bringing in evidence that could be used against him as evidence of being a Good Samaritan. “I helped Ms Moss escape.”
“And you two know each other how?” the female officer enquired. “Working relationship?” Her eyes narrowed, waiting for our answer, almost as if she could taste our lie.
I stepped away from Gil, arching my chin. “We used to know each other at school, but currently, our only relationship is a working one.”
Gil looked directly ahead; his jaw clenched.
“I see.” The woman nodded.
More scribbling from the man with black hair.
I shivered, doing my best to look innocent when I felt so damn guilty. I couldn’t stop it. I’d done nothing wrong. I’d called them in good faith of protecting Gil and society.
So why did I have to lie?
Why did I have to do the opposite of good when all I wanted to do was keep Gil safe?
My head pounded, reminding me of what he’d done. He’d thrown me into the door all to keep me silent. He’d been willing to concuss me to protect himself...from what?
My hurt morphed into anger, quickly slipping into disappointment.
I was disappointed in him. In me. In this whole crazy fiasco.
“You’re Ms Moss?” the woman pointed at me.
“Yes. Olin Moss.”
“Originally from Birmingham?”
“Yes.”
“And you have no idea who tried to take you?”
I clasped my hands together, seeking strength. “Like I said, I don’t know who he was.”
Gil stiffened; his gaze locked resolutely on the police.
“It still doesn’t explain why you didn’t call back if you dropped your phone. Reporting a crime and then vanishing before the call is completed normally hints that a crime is still in progress.” The man scratched his jaw with his pen. “So...want to tell us the real story?”
Goosebumps scattered over me, chased quickly by fear.
I didn’t want to do this.
I wanted to tell the truth.
But...Gil hadn’t breathed properly since the police arrived. His eyes might be shuttered from emotion, but that damn string that tied us together vibrated with so many dangerous things.
“Sorry.” I did my best to smile. “I did tell the operator I escaped. It wasn’t really an emergency anymore. I figured I wouldn’t waste your time any more than necessary.”
“You didn’t finish reporting the license plate number. We need that if we’re to investigate further.”
“Ah.” I swallowed hard. “Yes, that makes sense.”
You suck, O.
You might as well hold out your wrists for handcuffs.
Gil made a noise in his chest, pinching the bridge of his nose.
The woman noticed, pinning him with a ruthless stare. “Do you want to enlighten us, Mr. Clark?” She smiled thinly. “After all, this man hurt your employee and is still on the loose. Don’t you want him apprehended so other young women don’t suffer such a fate?” Her voice lowered conspiratorially. “They might not be as lucky as Ms Moss here. They might not have someone to help them escape.”
Gil seemed to grow taller and darker all at once. His eyebrows came down over shadowy eyes. He looked at her as if he despised her. As if she’d failed him in every aspect of his life.
I froze, reading the past in the arctic way he glowered. The lack of care when he was younger. The violence he’d suffered because no authority had noticed. But there was something new too. Something that said he blamed her. Blamed her for every misery he’d recently endured.
“I am not responsible for the protection of every girl in England.” His voice stayed clipped and cold.
“That might be, but any help you can provide—”
“He was young,” Gil snapped. “Had dirty blond hair and a hooked nose. Tall. Taller than me.”
The male officer scratched his pen across his notepad, scribing Gil’s description.
“That true, Ms Moss?” The woman locked me in her stare, giving me no place to hide.
No.
It’s a lie.
He was older, had dark hair, and a square nose. And he was short. Shorter than Gil.
I shuffled on my feet. “Yup. Hu-huh, that’s exactly him.”
Gil looked at me out the corner of his eye. His phone screamed, splitting the tension with an angry ring.
His skin lost its darkness, shocking to snow white. Dipping his hand into his pocket, he read the caller ID. His eyes closed with barely concealed distress.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring!
He nodded politely at the officers. “If you don’t mind. This is important.” Not waiting for their reply, he backed away and stormed toward his apartment through the office.
I stared until he’d disappeared.
The ringing stopped
I sighed and turned to the police, alone and swimming in fib-filled quicksand.
“Anything else I can provide?” I asked softly. “I’m tired and would like to go home to rest.”
“Yes, you must be feeling the effects of your ordeal,” the woman said.
I nodded, rubbing my temple, trying to ease my headache but also to amplify her empathy.
“Seeing as Mr. Clark provided a description of your assailant, can you add what sort of vehicle he was driving? Toyota? Vauxhall? Any recognisable features? Also, please give us the rest of the number plate, and we’ll be on our way.”
“Of course.” My brain raced, doing its best to recite a believable lie, but all I could think about were the scratches and dents of the black van. They weren’t blaringly obvious, but it would work like a fingerprint amongst thousands of others.
Gil reappeared, moving in my peripheral. His hand dragged over his mouth, his eyes vacant with grief. He didn’t look at me but his phone, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe how such an innocuous device could deliver such heartache.
Who called?
What was said?