Suddenly, I’m far too tired and bored by this whole situation to watch it spiral any further down the rabbit hole. Fuck Monty. Fuck this job. Fuck Zeth and his stupid fucking bag. “I have the duffel, asshole,” I announce. “It’s at my apartment. You want it, you’re welcome to it.”
“You little shit. You’re fucking dead!” Monty hollers.
He can be mad all he wants. He’s about to learn just how little I like being manipulated. If Zeth’s surprised by my claim that I have his bag, then he keeps his thoughts well hidden. “Take me to it,” he demands.
Monty kicks out, trying to hit Zeth in an attempt to wrestle himself free. “Alex. You’re gonna cost me a hundred Gs—”
Zeth picks Monty’s head up and smashes it back down onto the desk. “Your life worth more than a hundred grand to you, asshole?” When Monty doesn’t respond, Zeth scoots down and bends over him, getting up in his face. “That wasn’t rhetorical. Is your miserable backwater pimp existence worth more than one hundred thousand dollars to you?”
“Y-yes!”
“Then shut your fucking mouth, stand up straight and head out to the parking lot. Cause trouble and I’ll bury a bullet in the back of your head, and the rest of your staff will be dead before your out-of-shape carcass hits the deck. Got it?”
Monty’s eyes are full of fire and brimstone as he reluctantly pushes away from the desk and stands ramrod straight. He puffs his chest out like he just fought and won the right to stand instead of being told to get up. An angry muscle ticks in his jaw. The cold, hard glare he gives me as he slowly walks out of the office conveys plenty with its leaden weight. This is betrayal. You’re fucking dead to me, Moretti. Don’t expect to be forgiven for this…
In all the time I’ve known Montgomery, he’s ruled his little empire with an iron fist. There’s a measure of pride he takes in his work and a level of respect he commands from the people who deal with him. He’s never been disrespected like this before, and certainly not in front of one of his subordinates. Even if he could forgive me for handing over this bag so easily, he’ll never be able to forgive me for seeing him bettered like this. His shame will turn to vengeance, even though my actions have probably just saved his life.
His intentions are irrelevant now, though. I don’t want to be forgiven. I want to burn his world down to its foundations.
Zeth gestures with false benevolence for me to go ahead of him. In a grim, sour tone, Monty insists on having the last word. “Do whatever the fuck you like, Mayfair. You are not putting me in the fucking trunk.”
9
SILVER
“Wait. You’re supposed to be a woman. My mom said you cut some sort of deal in court when Alex was released.” The man on the front doorstep spreads his hands out in front of him, palm-up, and shrugs.
“Maybe your mom wasn’t actually there. Maybe she just read the court transcript. There’s…there was another Detective Lowell. My sister. Clerks mix us up all the time when they type up their reports.”
Sounds like a lie, but I just inspected his ID and it looked perfectly legit. “This won’t take a minute,” the detective says. “We have everything we need for our case. There are a few small details I’d like to go over before submitting my report. That okay with you?” He’s tall and clean-cut, wearing a North Face puffer jacket. The hair on the sides of his head has been shaved to a tight, fashionable fade. He’s dressed casually but there’s something militaristic and severe about him. He doesn’t give off the impression that I could decline to answer his questions. His authoritative, no-nonsense tone makes it clear that I don’t really have a choice in the matter, which sucks because I could really do without this shit right now.
“I’ve gone over my statement at least six times already. This weekend’s been really shitty, Agent Lowell. Can’t this wait until next week or something?”
The guy smiles tightly, not meaning it. “Call me Jamie. And unfortunately, no. I have to present the information I’ve gathered to my boss tomorrow. If there are discrepancies, we won’t be presenting our strongest case to the judge when the time comes. And I’m just guessing here, but I’m pretty sure you don’t want Weaving let off with a caution and some community service for the shit he pulled in that gymnasium, right?”
Weaving.
Nausea rolls through me in a never-ending wave. Hearing that name said out loud makes me flinch. “Oh, no. I’d love it if he got off with a caution, Jamie. I think it’d be great if he gets released and then tries to murder me again. Hopefully he’ll be successful next time.”
Agent Lowell grimaces, rocking on the balls of his feet. It’s freezing cold out. The rain turned to snow a couple of hours ago, and the wind is howling across the porch. I probably should have invited him inside, but so what? Fucking sue me. I’m exhausted. My manners have taken a sabbatical.
“Listen, Silver. I know this is all really overwhelming. Talking about what happened must bring up a lot of bad memories, but I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. What if Jake gets out and it isn’t you he comes after? What if he hurts someone else, and another assault could have been prevented if—”
Rolling my eyes, I head back into the house, leaving the door open behind me. “Stop. You’ve made your point.” I just want this whole fiasco to be over. Sending Agent Lowell away only to have to deal with him another time is tantamount to putting off the inevitable; I might as well just get it out of the way.
In the kitchen, I pour coffee into a filter, dump it inside the machine, slam the lid closed, and hit the brew button. In the corner, lying in his bed by pantry door, Nipper bares his teeth and growls at the stranger in his house. Agent Lowell—doesn’t look anything like a Jamie to me—curls a lip up at the dog, then leans across the kitchen island, resting on his forearms. He’s in his mid-twenties, probably. With his dirty blond hair, neat stubble, and his ice blue eyes, he’s good-looking and he knows it. Confidence oozes out of him like he’s been nailed by buckshot and he just can’t stop the flow. Women of all ages melt when he turns that roguish, half-apologetic smile on them, I’ll bet. Jake was good looking too, though. I’ve learned that good looks don’t make you a good person. Your appearance doesn’t mean shit if your soul’s as black as tar. I lean back against the oven, folding my arms across my chest.
Agent Lowell doesn’t seem to know what to do with my blank stare. “Like I said. There were a few things I wanted to clarify….” He trails off.
“Go ahead.”
“You told the officer who interviewed you at the hospital that Jacob Weaving raped you earlier this year. I’m a little confused. If you were sexually assaulted by Jacob, why was there no report on file?”
My nerve endings prickle, a thousand tiny fire ants biting the flesh between my shoulder blades and down the backs of my arms. Seriously? He’s gonna pull this shit? “I didn’t file a report. I was too scared of what would happen if I did. Girls get judged when the use the word rape. In my experience, that word makes a lot of men uncomfortable. I’d already been violated enough by then. I couldn’t have handled the endless questioning and probing. I told one person and he downplayed the whole thing. Tried to make out like nothing unusual happened. Yes, I’ve come forward now, and, no, I don’t think that it’s convenient timing, when Jake’s locked up for other crimes. I don’t think any of it is convenient. I did what I had to in order to make it through one day, and then the next. And then the next. That’s all there is to it.”