"A few hours, probably. Depends on how many questions they have." He crosses the room and pulls me into his arms, holding me close. "You'll be okay here. Rest, eat something, try not to think too much about last night."
"Easier said than done."
"I know." He kisses the top of my head. "But you're strong, Sloane, and you're gonna get through this."
I nod against his chest, not trusting my voice to stay steady if I speak. He holds me for another moment, then pulls away reluctantly.
"I'll be back as soon as I can," he says.
"I love you…"
Dane leaves me standing in the center of his bedroom feeling completely out of place and lost, but I know he'll be back. I sink onto the foot of the bed and look at his coffee mug on the nightstand where he left it.
The worst is over now, and rebuilding is all that's left, or so I hope. It's funny how life goes on for the living while death stops those who suffer from it. It's permanent and immovable, an unscalable wall and an unbreachable fortress.
Yesterday, it was a man hell-bent on revenge. Tomorrow, it may be me.
But I'm choosing right now to have a deep breath and refocus, because staying fixed on something I can't change will keep me stuck, and right now, there is too much promise in life to stay stuck here in this mess.
If Dane can do it, I can do it too.
Just need to finish my coffee first.
31
DANE
The sheriff's office is crowded with county officials and state troopers when I walk in. No one notices my presence until Varen spots me and ushers me into a quieter room with cement walls and a harsh fluorescent glare. I sit in a folding chair across from a metal desk with my hands resting on my thighs and my posture relaxed despite the tension coiling in my gut. Years of practice taught me how to look calm when everything inside me screams to run.
The state patrol officer across from me is older, maybe fifty, with graying hair and sharp eyes that miss nothing. His nameplate readsLieutenantMorrison. He looks like the sort of guy who toes the line, and I'm on the wrong side of the law on this one.
Varen stands near the door, arms crossed, watching, but he can't save me if this chap across from me wants to make a stink.
"So, Mr. Strouse," Morrison says, flipping through his notes. "Walk me through last night. Start with when you arrived at the celebration."
I've already told this story twice to Varen—immediately after the shooting, and an hour later before I slipped away to get Sloane out of there. But they won't take Varen's word on it, and it's better to get this over with than to drag it out.
"I got there around seven with Ms. Grady," I say, keeping my voice even. "We walked through the square, got some cider, took a photo with Santa." I add a grimace for kicks. I hated posing for that damn photo. "We were standing near the booths when the shooting started."
"And you immediately engaged the shooters."
"Yes. I carry a sidearm. I have a permit for it." I meet his eyes directly. "When people started firing into the crowd, I returned fire. Self-defense and defense of others."
Morrison nods slowly. "You're a good shot. According to witnesses, you dropped at least four men." The skeptical way he looks at me grates on my nerves, but I shrug and play it off like nothing. Yes, I killed those fuckers faster than Decon in a mouse nest and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
"I was military," I tell him calmly because it's my cover. The Ferraros spent good money building my history when I vanished, and I owe that to them—a parting gift. "Special Forces in Afghanistan. I know how to handle myself in a firefight."
"Right." He flips a page, pauses, and taps his finger on the file and scowls. "And then Cal Maddox took Ms. Grady hostage?"
"He dragged her into the alley behind the hardware store and put a gun to her head and called me out." The memory of Sloane's terrified face flashes through my mind, and I have to force it away. "I didn't have a choice. I took the shot." No chancein hell that damn bastard was getting away when I saw how scared she was.
"Three shots, according to the coroner's preliminary report. Two to the chest, one to the head." This time, he looks me dead in the eye with an accusatory expression. I don't care what he says. It was self-defense. "Seems a little extreme if you ask me."
"I wanted to make sure he went down," I tell him. "Ms. Grady has become special to me, and he threatened her life."
Morrison leans back in his chair studying me and purposefully lets the room fall silent. Yet another tactic they use in interrogations, which this isn't supposed to be. I'm just here to give my statement is all. But he's waiting to see if I'll fill the silence and start talking to ease the tension and accidentally reveal something I shouldn't.
I stay quiet.
