Total pages in book: 170
Estimated words: 160166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 801(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 534(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 801(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 534(@300wpm)
All I can think is: Fuck. This. My heart hammers and the beeping continues to reveal my agitated state. Irritation overwhelms me to the point that I want to rip off the pulse oximeters, and it takes everything in me not to. Instead I focus on calming down.
I can handle this. It’s going to be okay. Declan is going to be back any moment.
The back of my eyes prick, wondering what Declan will think. Wondering if he’ll believe me.
“I’m sick,” I tell them bluntly but they don’t stop. They both step closer, surrounding me on either side of my bed.
“We heard … do you have time to answer our questions?” Detective Barlowe asks.
“I’m very tired and I don’t think—” I start but again, they don’t take the hint.
“We’ve cleared it with the doctor and this will just take a moment.” Detective Hart speaks up for the first time, his voice far more commanding and low, seductive even. He catches me off guard.
Swallowing thickly, I answer, “Just one second, please.”
I start to pull the covers down and then ask them for privacy. “Just a moment, please. I’m very hot.” Ever the gentlemen, they turn. “Let us know when you’re ready.”
I fumble with the phone Declan gave me. It’s embarrassing how my fingers tremble. With every second, I steady my breathing, I attempt to look anything other than suspicious although I’m certain that’s exactly what they think of me.
I send the red flag emoji to Declan. I nearly put the phone down but then I decide to record this bullshit. He’s going to know exactly what happened. I hit record and wait a moment.
“You don’t need to text your lawyer, Ms. Lennox,” Hart jokes when the tapping is more than obvious.
Satisfied that its recording, I lower the phone to my side and place it face down so they won’t know and pull off my sweater. “Not my lawyer, Detective,” I tell him, forcing the semblance of a smile. “You can turn around now.”
“Had to let someone know we were speaking?” Hart questions and Barlowe follows up with, “Would that be Mr. Declan Cross?”
My heart does a skitter of a beat and I clear my throat as the damn monitor gives it away. Both of the men look at it and it pisses me off. How is this fucking legal?
“Do my text messages matter with regards to … whatever you’re here for?”
He starts to push me for the name of who I messaged and I cut him off by asking, “What is all of this about?”
I’ll be damned if I’m giving them anything.
“What happened to your wrists?” Hart asks in a tone that’s much more concerned than prying. I can feel the blood drain from my face. I swallow thickly, staring at him as I think of an answer and do everything I can not to think of the water. The cage. The voices I can’t see. The fucking cold that I thought would kill me.
“Self-induced?” Barlowe presses when I don’t answer.
“If you must know, bondage is an especially favorite kink of mine,” my smart ass answers.
All of the pent-up anger and frustration spews out of me with disdain. The cops honestly don’t deserve this venom. They’re only doing their job and they didn’t do a damn thing to me. I could be polite or even silent. Instead, I don’t hold back. I’m all too aware it’s because I’m so damn careful with Declan. I’m fucking terrified of disappointing him. I’m petrified of something else happening. So all of that rage that stays buried deep down inside … I decide to unleash it.
“I think you should go,” I tell them and my voice is far stronger than I expect. Especially given how much my throat hurts. It doesn’t pain me much now; I suppose those drugs are worth the price.
“We have a few more questions first,” Hart says.
“Where were you the last two nights?” Barlowe asks.
“Your mother said she looked for you at your place of work and you weren’t there. You also weren’t at your apartment,” Hart adds.
“I’m sorry… what?” Disbelief washes through me, along with a chill from the fever. I feel sick. My poor mother. There’s no way.
“She called asking to file a missing persons report.”
My mother spoke to the cops? No fucking way. I don’t believe it. My heart thumps and that fucking monitor makes me close my eyes in absolute disdain. I can barely breathe and it takes everything in me not to grab the phone and text her right this minute. I have to keep recording.
Clenching my jaw, I tell them, “Just got a new phone. I’ll be sure to text her and let her know I’ve been under the weather.”
“Is there a reason you missed work, haven’t been to your residence in forty-eight hours and now you’re in the hospital with marks on your wrists and … what exactly are you here for?” Hart asks.