I go to the kitchen to grab a cold container of lo mein leftovers and a fork, then sit on the kitchen island like an animal. Fuck table manners—I inhale my noodles because I’m hungry as fuck, and no one is here to tell me to sit on a chair like a human being. That someone being Cal.
After I demolish my noodles, I rummage through the kitchen for more food. A cut-up apple and some chunky peanut butter sound delicious—rich, crunchy, and healthy because fruit, duh. I add some honey mustard pretzels on the side of the plate, so I have something crunchy to complement it.
Right before I take my first bite, my phone screen flashes out of the corner of my eye. I have four missed calls from the front desk, which is weird. They don’t call unless we have a delivery or food waiting for us. I call them back right away.
Jonathan, the front desk manager, answers my call on the first ring. “Hello, Bolton?”
“Yes, Jonathan, is everything okay?”
Nothing frazzles Jonathan. He’s worked in the building for over a decade and seen it all.
“There are a pair of detectives from the NYPD here to ask you some questions. They asked for entry to your penthouse suite, but I made it very clear to them that without a search warrant, I had to call for your permission to allow them access to your private space,” he replies in an even tone. “They said they’ll wait for you here.”
“I don’t know why the police would come around looking for me. Thank you for keeping them in the lobby. I’m going to call Cal and ask what I should do.”
“No problem, Bolton. I’ll wait for your instructions,” he says before ending the call.
Panic roils in my stomach, and I regret slamming those noodles back. I think I’m going to be sick. Why would the police ask me questions? Maybe they’re asking about something Cal did? I’ve assumed all of his business dealings are on the up-and-up for the past eight years, but I never actually asked. As long as the bills were paid and my card wasn’t declined, I didn’t worry about where the money came from.
Or they could be here for me…maybe Meredith McSatan-Pants called the cops on me after I hung up on her.She would…
The cops are going to wait in the lobby for me until I leave the apartment. I take a deep breath, then call Cal. He runs a multi-million dollar company and knows way more about legal matters than I do.
“Where are my pictures, Lightning Bolt?” he asks. I can practically hear the smirk in his voice.
“The pics will have to wait, Daddy. There are NYPD detectives in the lobby waiting for me. They want to ask me questions,” I answer him.
“Don’t leave the penthouse. I’ll be there ASAP. I’m texting our lawyer now, and he’ll meet us. Do not go anywhere with them or let them into the penthouse unless they have a warrant.”
Well, that doesn’t sound ominous or sketchy at all…
“Okay,” I squeeze in before he hangs up the phone. Fuck, now I have to put real pants on.
I’m not sure what’s going on, but it sounds like writing will have to wait…
3
CAL
My annoyance with law enforcement is partially because they’re always up my ass. Whether it’s the IRS taxing me or the criminal justice system coming at me for a wrongful firing suit—which wasn’t wrongful; the fucking prick embezzled money from my company—they’re not people I enjoy dealing with. The other reason is that when my sister disappeared, they didn’t do a damn thing to find her. They said her case was anaccidentaldeath. I’d bet my entire company and every asset I own that her death was not an accident.
And now I have a third reason. Two detectives dragged my little lightning bolt into a drafty questioning room to harass him, and it’s taking all my self-control not to fly across this cold steel table and rip their throats out. How dare they? Dante D’Amato, my lawyer of almost fifteen years, elbows me to get my attention. He gives me a glare that translates to‘Stand the fuck down and shut the fuck up’. And he’s right. Anything I say can hurt Bolton, and I refuse to make more trouble for him when he has a book due soon. He’s stressed out enough.
The two detectives sit across from the three of us, dressed in their standard suits. One is lanky, with blond hair and bright brown eyes. He seems to be in his mid-thirties. The other onehas rich umber skin, with dark brown eyes and a smile on his face. He’s younger than the first detective and not jaded by the criminal justice system, or is missing the stick up his ass his partner obviously has.
“Hello Mr. Monroe. My name is Detective Michael O’Callaghan, and this is my partner, Detective Germain Johnson. We’re from the homicide division,” the taller, lanky detective says.
Detective Johnson clears his throat, running his fingers through his closely cropped hair. “Do you know why we brought you here?”
Bolton’s face pales, but he keeps his composure. Why the hell would they want to talk to him? My lightning bolt is a gentle soul. He can barely kill a fly, let alone a human life. He may write some insane shit, but he’d never hurt anyone.
“No,” he answers shortly, just how Dante coached him to. The less information you give, the less material they have to fabricate a story against you. I know it’s hard for him not to be a bratty little smartass, and I’m so proud of him.
“Have you heard of the Christmas Cleaver murders?” he asks. Johnson’s eyes Bolton like a hawk, trying to discern any changes in his mannerisms or facial expressions.
“Yes, I heard about it on the news this morning,” he responds.
“We found a third body today; he had a Christmas ornament in his hand. One of the crime scene investigators realized that all three murders are dead ringers for events that happened in your books.”
