“It tore my family apart,” he continued, standing to stare out his window. “My parents split up. My mother sank into a depression. I rarely saw my dad. Within six months, my world had been turned inside out.”
“I’m so sorry, Captain.”
He turned back to me. “It gets better. And this is the part you need to keep very, very quiet.”
“Or you’ll burn me.”
“I’ll bury you. You will spend years behind bars.”
Just when I was beginning to sympathize with him. “How about you stop with the threats and get on with this?”
He walked over and leaned against the desk in front of me, towering over me, making sure I knew he was top dog. After studying my face—my perturbed face—a solid minute, he said, “I was seven when I hunted that kid down and killed him.”
I stilled. He was confessing a murder to me. That was there in the back of my mind, but even more salient was the fact that he was only seven when he did it.
“Did you know that they rarely suspect a seven-year-old of murder? I wasn’t even questioned.”
The shock I felt surely showed on my face. As I’d demonstrated many times in my life, my poker face was virtually nonexistent. But my fight-or-flight response was top notch. He’d just confessed to murder. I wasn’t going to make it out of that room alive. I couldn’t help a glance toward the door.
“No one’s stopping you,” he said, nodding toward my escape route. He didn’t seem particularly concerned. Of course he wouldn’t be. He had evidence of me buying drugs all over town. My accusations would be in retaliation after his attempt to arrest me. He’d really thought this through.
Then again, would he risk someone knowing his deep dark secret? That paltry evidence wasn’t enough. Any good lawyer could get the charges dropped. He had to know that.
“Is this the part where you kill me?” I asked him.
Of course this was the part where he killed me. He would never let me leave here with that information. Would he say that I went for his gun? That we fought and the gun went off? That’s what I’d do.
“No. As I told you, I have enough evidence on you to put you away for a very long time.”
“That evidence is all circumstantial. You’d need testimonies. Eyewitnesses,” I argued. Why was I arguing this? Making the case for him to just kill me and get it over with. Perhaps it was because when I did leave here—if I did leave here—I didn’t want to have to worry about him changing his mind. Would I get a bullet to the back of my head when I least expected it? I didn’t want this hanging over my head for the rest of my life. “You’d need credible witnesses,” I added before pointing to the photographs. “Not that crap you sent me in the streets.”
One step ahead of me, he said, “Bought and paid for.”
Damn, he thought of everything. At least he was thorough.
“I also have footage of you constantly talking to yourself. Arguing with air. Shaking some invisible friend’s hand. Hugging someone only you could see. Everything together adds up to a lengthy sentence in prison or the nuthouse. I’m good with either.”
Holy crap. I knew that stuff would come back to haunt me. Damn it.
He leaned closer. “As long as I stay out of jail, you stay out of jail.”
I was beaten. He won. I crossed my arms over Danger and Will. “Why go to all this trouble? Why confess something so incriminating to me now? After all these years? You don’t exactly like me. Or trust me.”
“I do trust you to a degree. I see the lengths you go for your clients. It’s noble. Stupid at times, but noble. But you’re right. I’m fairly certain I don’t like you. And I need to know.”
“If you like me?”
“If he did it. The kid. When I was— When I killed him, he swore he didn’t do it. Over and over. He swore he never touched my sister. But I’d seen the bruises on her. The blood. I also saw the mark she left on her assailant. She said she bit his wrist. He had a bite mark on his wrist days later. But I need to know the truth. I have to be certain.”
If he killed the guy, how was I supposed to find out the truth? Just how much did he know about me?
“I need to hear it from the dead kid, and you are just the person to ask him.”
I shifted in my chair, suddenly uncomfortable. Or, well, more uncomfortable. “And how am I supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know. Call him. Channel him. Do whatever it is you do.”
“That’s crazy talk,” I said, inching up out of my chair.
He didn’t move to stop me, but put a hand on the sidearm at his hip. “I’m an excellent shot.”