He took the cuffs off me and opened the door of an unmarked police car. “Of course. You can call them on the way.”
“I need my cell. My friend’s number’s in it.”
He helped me into the car and leaned down. “I’ll get it for you if you tell me where it is.”
“It’s on the kitchen table,” I said, and he closed the door.
The officer came back with my phone a few minutes later. He got into the driver seat and handed it back to me.
“Thank you,” I said, pulling up Stella’s number.
I prayed she had her phone with her.
“Nora, hey,” she answered, breathless. “Is it safe to come back yet?”
“Not yet. Can you keep the kids for a few hours?”
There was silence before Stella came back on. “If you’re in trouble, cough once. If you just want some alone time with your hot guy, make a kissing sound.”
“I wish it was one of the two. But I’m on my way to the police station.”
“Did you finally murder the bastard?”
“Unfortunately, he’s still alive. But they want to ask me a few questions and are taking me to the station with them.”
Probably shouldn’t be saying that too loudly while I was in a police car.
“Do you need a lawyer?”
That was a good question. And one I didn’t have an answer to yet. I didn’t want to look guilty because I immediately lawyered up. But I also didn’t want them to pin something on me.
“I don’t know yet,” I said, my voice sounding small.
“Call me if you do and I’ll mobilize Malena.”
My mouth curved into a half-smile. The last person I wanted to rile up over what was hopefully nothing was Malena. I didn’t know anyone with half a brain who wasn’t scared of her when she went into lawyer mode.
“Thank you, honey. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve a friend like you.”
“Call me if you need a lift.”
“I will.” I hung up and slid my phone in my pocket.
We made it to the station a few minutes later. When we walked inside, it hit me that I was in a police station, about to be interrogated. It didn’t matter that they called it a conversation; they wanted me at the station for a reason, and I doubted it was for a casual chat.
As soon as I took one step into the interrogation room, all my earlier bravado disappeared, and I felt as if my breath had solidified in my throat. The officer hadn’t spoken another word since getting my phone for me, and the silence grew tight with tension.
He led me to a chair, and after I sat down, he left. I perched on the edge, body coiled tight and ready for flight.
The door opened what seemed like hours later, and I jumped at the sound. I wiped my clammy hands on my pants and willed my pounding heart to slow down. They’d take one look at me and think I was guilty without even having talked to me.
“Ms. Lindberg,” a tall, lanky guy with short-cropped dark hair greeted me.
He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, his badge clipped to his belt. I guessed him to be in his thirties.
“My name is Agent Cody Jenkins and I work for the federal bureau of investigation.” He sat down opposite me, putting a thick folder on the table.
Why is the FBI involved in this? What exactly has Jim been up to?
