The detective sighs, his fingers pinching the tip of his nose.
“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters. “So be it but need I remind you that this is an ongoing investigation. I do not need you adding fuel to the fire.”
“I don’t think he wants to add fuel.” I smile politely. “He’d rather ride waves and dance.”
Owen looks down at me and grins while the detective shakes his head, awash with confusion.
“Have at em!” He steps to one side and holds his arm out, allowing us to pass.
“I knew you’d think about dancing with me,” Owen whispers.
“I danced with you last night and look where that got me. Shot in the arm,” I whisper, aware the detective is a few steps behind us as he escorts us out of the police station.
We walk along the clinical hallways, the luminous lights making it cold and empty. “Do you even know what you’re going to say? Don’t you have minions who write speeches?”
“I’ll wing it.”
I snort, muttering, “Wing it! The future Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, everyone.”
“Ahh. I’m flattered that you have so much faith in me.”
We head to the main reception area where we are signed out, and I take the moment to glance out at the circus that awaits.
Just like the detective warned us, the street is awash with reporters. All waiting for our exit. Cameras in their hands, microphones at the ready. There are no metal gates or anything to stop them. We will literally be bombarded as soon as we step outside.
Well, this isn’t ideal.
Fucking Owen Cooper. He stands tense next to me.
“I can’t protect you out there. You are literally a walking target for anyone to pick off.”
“I’m winging it, why can’t you?”
“This isn’t funny, King,” I hiss, turning to him. He looks down, and glances back at the crowd hesitantly.
“I have to do this, Cookie,” he explains, his face serious. “I have to show my face. I have to say what I need to say.”
“But you don’t know what you’re even saying,” I retort, frustration growing.
“What would help this situation?”
“Not doing it.”
He rolls his eyes. “Well, like I said, that isn’t going to happen. So, turn your cute little face that way.”
He grabs hold of my chin and spins it back to the double doors in front of us. I bat his hand away, annoyed. “And tell me, what I can do to put you at ease?”
I step away from him and walk closer to the doors, pacing the length of the front of the reception area, peeking out the windows. The receptionist must think we’re insane.
“She’s nervous,” Owen says to her by way of an explanation.
The police station has steps running up to the main entrance, and most of the press are waiting at the bottom, the police having already pushed them back. I step back to Owen’s side and quietly give him instructions.
“You go to the bottom of those steps and stand amongst them. But get them to step back. You can use the pandemic as the excuse for all I care. But you need to push them back.”
“Can’t I stand on the steps?”
I shake my head. “Snipers.”
