“Why areyouhere?Why isn’t security questioning me?” Dizzie no-last-name punctuated her questions with her hands, drawing Killian’s attention to her brightly colored nails. Still red, they looked as pristine and undamaged as they had earlier.
His own were ragged from clawing at the rubble. Tucked away in this cell, she appeared untouched from the night’s horror. His anger surged, battling back his grief in the emotional push–pull he’d experienced since the roof’s collapse.
Anger, grief, and an inexplicable sense of relief that she was unharmed, which only enflamed his anger higher. Jaw clenched, he waited for her questions to end.
When they finally did, she stared at him expectantly, as though she were waiting for answers. No, not waiting for answers. Demanding them.
It was ballsy, given their difference in station. And in any other situation—even at the gala—he would’ve found it cute. But not now.
“Why am I here? My family is a major investor in the Tremaine Corporation and that gives me significant access.”
She didn’t react to that. That was fine. He had plenty of reasons. “Why am I here?” he repeated. “Because I was there.”
She didn’t speak, but her gulp sounded loud in the quiet room. Good, he was getting to her.
He continued, voice cold. “One of my oldest friends—Portia Tremaine—was injured in the explosion tonight. Her husband,my best friend, was killed.” He paused, leaning in because he wanted his next statement to receive the attention it deserved. “You killed my best friend. I want you to pay.”
His words took the fight out of her and she dropped onto the bed. Her fierce façade crumbled and Killian enjoyed the moment. Maybe now he’d get the answers he needed.
She opened and closed her mouth several times before speaking. “How many people were killed?” Her soft voice lacked the fire of her earlier questions.
Mere curiosity or was she judging the success of her attack?
“I don’t know. Does it matter?” He hadn’t heard concrete numbers. Only one number mattered to him: two. The two people closest to him had been in that blast. One was dead. The other would never be the same again.
He’d never be the same again.
Dizzie blinked up at him, her big blue eyes glistening with tears.
She looked almost innocent. Was it an illusion?
It had to be. She had delivered a package—a bomb! She was the least innocent person in the room.
“I’m sorry.” Her soft apology echoed in the sealed cell.
“Sorry for what?” She had to say it. He needed her to admit that she’d killed Tommy. Wanted to hear her guilty confession so he could get over his stupid fascination with her and get justice.
“I’m sorry for your loss. I know you and Mr. Gilmore were friends.” She paused. “The newsies always said how close the two of you were.”
Her words struck nerves exposed and raw from the night’s events. Pain, rage, and grief gnawed at his insides. He whirled away, needing as much distance from her as the cell could provide.
The urge to punch the glass was strong. He fought it back. All of it. He had to bury it all or he’d never get the answers he needed.
Killian stared unseeing out the glass wall, rebuilding his calm piece by piece until his emotions were back under control. Finally, he was able to face her again.
How could she sit there so calmly when he felt like a caged animal?
He crossed his arms, hiding his fists, and tried to project an image of calm. “Tell me what happened, Dizzie.” He used her name deliberately to forge a connection between them. She had to admit what she had done.
Her posture softened and she eased back on the bed. Once her back was pressed against the wall, she drew her legs in close and wrapped her arms around her knees, looking young and vulnerable.
A clever trick or the real her? If he convinced her to talk, he’d know.
The buzz of his phone broke the silence. She tensed. Whatever she might have been about to confess was lost.
Fuck.
“Yeah?” Phone to his ear, he never took his eyes off her.
