He opened his mouth, ready to recite the numbers, when he realized his big mistake. He smiled apologetically. “Any chance we could do three years ago, instead? I mean, it will be an even better proof, right?”
“All right, Mr. Montague.” She pronounced the name with mild sarcasm. “It’s time for you to have a think.” She made a short call, mumbling something about Lucy coming over for a case.
Simon gripped the armrests of his chair.
Upon a knock, the woman got up and went to talk with someone out in the hallway. Through the door left ajar, Simon made out every few words. His interrogator said something about the face on the passport matching, and the other voice—Lucy, presumably—suggested a glitch.
Simon let out a breath of relief. Yes! If they believed he was him, they could solve this whole problem for him. He could tell them the truth. Bring in the police, the FBI, hell, whoever wanted to join on a witch hunt for Everett—
“But what he says doesn’t make sense,” the woman muttered. “And he could have had plastic surgery to take the spot of the deceased.”
No, no, no. Simon bit his lip. There had to be some kind of proof of him being him—DNA, maybe—but how long would that take?
He didn’t have the time. Not against Everett’s scheme, and not against Shanna’s curse.
The door opened. The mysterious Lucy had black hair, pulled back in a smooth bun, and a tattoo of a skull with roses peeking out from behind the short sleeves of her blue uniform. She gestured to Simon. “Come with me, sir.”
Based on her scowl, Simon guessed the other interrogator had successfully convinced her that Simon was either a brilliant fraud or a complete lunatic.
So, off he went again to another small room down the hallway with a white table and a white chair but no computer.
“Wait here, please,” Lucy said, closing the door behind him.
Simon sat, drumming his fingers on the table.
After five minutes, he stood and paced around.
After ten more minutes, he sat back down.
There was a clock on the wall but nothing else in the room—not even one of those two-sided mirrors he could yell at.
Only that damn clock that kept ticking, the movement of the hands soon beginning to match the beat of his heart.
After one hour, Lucy finally came back. She asked him if he’d changed his mind and was ready to talk. Claiming he wasn’t lying about anything didn’t impress her too much, and she left again.
Should hestartlying? Maybe say he picked up a discarded passport on the street, just to make them happy?
But the point wasn’t in making the officers happy. It was in letting him go—as soon as possible. He didn’t have this much time.
He told Shanna he’d be back as soon as he could.
Two more hours passed. He was taken back into the other room for another round of questioning. Perhaps they thought he’d be more truthful with them after a few hours on that damn uncomfortable chair.
“Any tattoos?” the woman asked.
“Just this—” He was halfway to raising the hand where his bond tattoo used to be. “No. None.”
And didn’t they make him strip down to prove there were none.
Six hours. They didn’t give him any drink or food. Didn’t let him go to the toilet. It was a straight up police interrogation, like he was a murder suspect.
And after six hours, as he stared at the blank walls and the blank table, Simon was starting to think he was about to become one. Whichever unlucky soul stepped through that door first …
Something scratched at the door. The knob rotated, then stopped.
Simon raised his head from the desk.
After more scratching at the lock from the outside, the door opened, revealing a hunched-down Chris. “Come on. Let’s go!” she whispered, urging him with her hands.
