“Endo hasn’t shaved in days,” I remark.
“Since Selnoa.”
“You keeping track?”
“I keep track of everything.”
Chapter 14
It wasn’t me
Dina
To say I’ve had a crappy week is an understatement. It all started with the man under my tire who refused an ambulance when he clearly needed one. Since the law wouldn’t care if it was an accident or not, I decided I’d look out for myself as well as help him. I didn’t call anyone. Instead, the man and I made a pact of sorts. I took him in, and he gave me a pass for hitting him with my car. He also paid me thirty-five grand.
I knew taking him in was a risk.
But doing the opposite would’ve meant I’d have even more problems on my plate. I’m in the middle of a vicious divorce, on my own and fighting a lawyer ex, so I couldn’t afford, mentally or financially, any more problems.
I regret not driving away. That would’ve been selfish and horrible, but so many people would’ve done it to save their own ass, and they would’ve continued to live their hypocritical lives criticizing the rest of us for being dumb enough to give a shit.
There. I said what I said. Now I digress.
The very thing I feared, a.k.a. becoming a criminal and going to jail for something I didn’t mean to do is the very thing that’s happening to me now.
After I dropped off the man, I kept his bag even though I assumed it didn’t hold a trombone. Still, it didn’t cross my mind that a man would carry a sniper rifle in what looked like a long black box. I most definitely didn’t think it was the sniper rifle connected with the murder of Massio Crossbow.
Yup, Massio Crossbow, Selnoa’s most notorious crime boss.
If what the police are saying is true, I provided sanctuary to the man who gunned down Massio Crossbow. I don’t know what I’ll tell Jesus when my time comes, but I hope that day isn’t any time soon, because I’m not sure I feel bad about the whole thing. I can’t say I’m sorry Massio got what he deserved.
I stare at the pistol the detectives left. I think they want me to use it on myself. Or point it at them so they’ll have an excuse to shoot me. What kind of corrupt police force is this?
I’m a hairdresser. Like, what’s a girl to do?
As a God-fearing woman, I’m not going to off myself. I have no idea what kind of game they’re playing, but if they want me dead, they’ll have to do it themselves. I’m also not giving up the description of the man who was in my house.
Denial is the best strategy, second only to silence.Say nothing, Dina. Stay strong.
The pair of detectives return. You’d think the police would sidestep the investigation, but the two who are overseeing the investigation of the Crossbow murder are threatening me horribly.
The coroner released a statement that Massio died of a single bullet right between his eyes before someone unloaded more bullets into his chest. They’re after two men. One of whom is the guy I ran over as he fled the scene, I’m pretty sure of it.
I tell them nothing, but as they ask me questions and show me gross pictures of Massio Crossbow’s corpse, I’m putting together my own timeline.
With a shake of her head, the woman approaches the table and holsters the pistol she left next to the file of sickening images of the carnage at the Crossbow mansion. She’s brunette with a styled bob. I wonder who does her hair, or if she styles it herself in the morning before coming to work. What went through her head this very morning before she came in here and brought me a suicide weapon?
“Don’t say I didn’t give you an out.” She turns around and checks the camera in the corner. It’s not recording. They’re shut off when these two cops come in.
“What time is it?” her partner, an older man with a receding hairline, asks her.
“It’s almost four.” She leans against the door, her lanyard sliding over her chest. The black-on-black outfit suits her. Secretly, I envy women like her. They kick so much ass. I just cry. A lot.
Well, maybe not so much today, mainly because I’m lethargic. I haven’t eaten anything since they brought me in for questioning. Which was a few days ago. I think. I’m not even sure what day it is.
The man runs a finger over his mustache. He does that a lot. Also scratches the side of his neck. Or taps the table three times. He might have OCD or something closely related to it, but I’m not a behavioral expert, so I wouldn’t know for sure. I only noted the patterns of his repetitive gestures.
He thrusts a stack of pictures at me.
