“Did you keep Rick’s head?”I ask.
James smiles and winks.“What do ye think?”
“I think I want to see you fuck it.”
That earns me another heart-stopping grin.
When we finish, he lights the match to destroy the evidence.
We watch the flames spread and consume, and James takes my hand.His grip is strong and sure.
When the fire draws closer to us, we turn and walk out, hand in hand, leaving our deadly sanctuary behind.
Chapter 16
Eddie
Iknowthisroom.
I’ve been on the other side of this table dozens of times—the interrogator’s side, where you control the temperature, the lighting, the length of silences.Where you watch for tells like shifting eyes, clasped hands, anything that separates the innocent from the guilty.
Now I’m the one being watched.
The chair I sit in is bolted to the floor.The two-way mirror reflects my own haggard face back at me—unshaven, eyes red-rimmed, the particular exhaustion that comes from knowing you’re fucked and calculating exactly how fucked.
Even though the Internal Affairs meeting was supposed to begin at eight this morning—in a standard meeting room, not an interrogation room—I’ve been here for nearly two hours with no water and no bathroom break.Classic intimidation tactics I’ve deployed myself more times than I can count.
The wait is deliberate.Let me stew, let anxiety do half the work.I know this because I wrote half the playbook.
How many people have I done this to?The thought circles like a vulture.How many guilty men sat exactly where I’m sitting and told themselves they could talk their way out?
Most of them couldn’t.
The door opens.
Vincent enters carrying two thick manila folders, moving with unhurried confidence.
“Where’s Internal Affairs?”I rasp, my throat too dry.“Why aren’t we in a meeting room?”
He just stands there, looking at me with something that may pass for disappointment if I didn’t know what lived behind it.
“I wanted to believe in you, Crowe,” he says.“I really did.”
He sits and sets the folders down carefully, aligned with the table’s edge.He opens the first one and slides crime scene photos across the table’s surface toward me.They’re of Michael Devlin’s house with the severed hand in a toolbox, a receipt for a bar, and a bloody shirt.
“Tell me what you see,” Vincent says, like this is a training exercise.
I keep my voice level.“A staged crime scene.Professional work.”
“Yourwork.”
I don’t respond because every denial sounds like guilt in this room.
Vincent opens the second folder, which contain more photos and documentation.He lays it out piece by methodical piece:
The adhesive analysis report highlighting the polymer match to my old case work.
Security footage stills of my car, unmistakably my license plate, time-stamped two blocks from Devlin’s house during the break-in window.
