Oh Christ.
"You've heard of him," he said, watching for a reaction he was not going to get. "Head of a mob syndicate in Wellington."
Breathe Marie. Just breathe.
"You used to live in Wellington, when you were Mrs Costello, correct?" he asked, voice level, determined, but somehow still soft.
Every cell in my body wanted to lie. A headache had started behind my right eye. I reached up and rubbed my temple, feeling the floor fall out from beneath my seat. Feeling my world shatter and crumble.
Feeling like I might vomit.
I forced myself not to glance at the photo on my desk. It took every ounce of self-possession to deny myself one desperate last look.
"Yes," I finally managed to murmur.
There was no confidence in my tone. Just utter defeat.
"Are you all right?" The detective 's voice came from right beside my chair.
My eyes flicked open, directly looking into the concerned gaze of Detective Pierce. I must have zoned out for a moment. I had no recollection of him moving.
"Ms Cox, can I get you something? Water, perhaps?"
I shook my head to say no. There was nothing that could save us now.
Nothing.
The detective hesitated, still crouched down at my side. Then letting out what seemed like a frustrated breath, he rose and returned to his side of the desk, sitting back down in the chair there. I didn't want him to sit. I wanted him to leave. I wanted my past to not have come back and haunted me this day. My mistakes to not have been thrust in my face reminding me of what I now had to lose.
"We're tidying up loose ends," Detective Pierce said, sharpening my focus, making me bring my attention back to the room and out of my sordid past.
I didn't say anything, just waited for him to go on. There was nothing I could do to stop this now. He knew who I was. He knew I was connected to Roan McLaren. He knew exactly what sort of man McLaren is.
"There are certain events," the detective said, speaking carefully, softly still. Making me wonder why he was taking such care. Shouldn't he be more judgemental than this? Shouldn't he be reading me my rights? "That we need to clarify further, before we shut the case for good."
His dark brown eyes held my gaze. I hadn't moved since he'd returned to his side of the desk. I hadn't said a word of encouragement or in my defence. I was a wall of nothing. Even my customary confidence was shattered, but at least I was still sitting tall.
"We need your help to fill in the blanks," he announced, making the cogs in my head begin to splutter and whirl.
"Help?" I asked, and cursed the surprise that was obvious in my tone.
The detective sat forward on his chair. Right. We were getting to crux of this conversation. The real reason why he was here.
This was it.
"What happened the night your husband was killed?"
There was no way on earth I could hide my reaction to those words. All air left my lungs, my fingers grasped the edge of my desk so hard, my knuckles soon became white. No doubt matching the colour of my cheeks. Saliva pooled in my mouth letting me know I was about to be sick. A small pained sound slipped free of my pursed lips.
I shook my head. Once. Twice. Three times.
"I'm sorry, Detective, but you've got the wrong woman," I forced myself to say.
"You know as well as I, Marie," he said so softly, so gently, "that I have not."
What was this? If he knew Richard had been killed, then he had an idea of why. If he was fishing for my part in the whole wretched, vile mess that unfolded resulting in Rick's death, then why was he being so kind about it? If he actually knew what I had done that led to the murder of my husband, he would not be as nice.
So, maybe he didn't know.
"I have nothing to say," I advised, standing from my chair and pulling my shoulders back.
This had been a false alarm. Too close for comfort, certainly. And now knowing McLaren had been brought down and would pay for his crimes, a warning that it was time to leave the country.
I hadn't been hiding as such. Cox was my maiden name. If Roan McLaren had wanted to exact more revenge for what I did, he could have found me. But with his back to the wall, things might change. Would the drug lord use me to garner a better result in court?
I wasn't going to wait around to find out.
There was more at stake here than my own neck.
The cop leaned back in his chair and stroked his goatee beard contemplatively. Completely and utterly ignoring my inferred request for him to leave. His keen brown eyes never left my face.
"What are you afraid of?" he finally asked, voice low and gentle. He was concerned for me. I shook my head to dispel that thought. He was a cop doing his job, which ultimately could mean our ruin.
"I can't help you," I replied, confidence finally returning to shield my true emotions right then.