The tension crackles. The two eye each other with clear disdain and distrust.
“How can we help you, Tristan?” Lana plasters a smile on her face—ever the PR professional. “It’s not the best time, as you can see—”
Another suit appears in the doorway—an older man with salt and pepper hair and a grim face. “Special Agent Clarke mentioned a confession,” the man begins. “This better be good because you buried us in paperwork, Kent.”
I arch my brow, my mind roving through the faces I’ve met over the years.
And it clicks.
“Deputy Director Ferguson,” I murmur, “coming out of retirement? I thought you were above all of this…‘noise.’”
The man scowls. We’ve had a few run-ins in the past. It didn’t end well for him.
“I’m here to witness your downfall, Kent. Murder in broad daylight. Risky even for you.”
Lana stiffens, her hands on her hips. “If this isthattype of visit, you’ll talk to our attorneys—”
“I just need a statement,” Tristan cuts in, holding up a recorder. Hisjaw tics.
“Mr. Kent, why were you in the hospital to begin with?”
Lana starts to answer.
Tristan stops her. “The question’s for Mr. Kent.”
I growl, “Don’t you disrespect my wife.”
He ignores me. “Were Edon Berisha and his son responsible for the ambush?”
I freeze, gaze colliding with his cold ones and glance at Lana, who’s frowning with obvious confusion.
“I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” I say. Where is he going with this?
“The cameras were blown, tapes destroyed. Three men died.” Tristan moves toward me, his strides measured. “Deacon Rafe Mancini testified there was an honor walk, and you were there to pay respects. But the Berishas were also there, armed and ready. Was this an ambush?”
The room falls silent except for the beeping and hissing from the machinery. My gaze sweeps over the fed, taking in the stiffness in his frame, the hard glare in his eyes.
His fingers twitch. A tell. A sign of guilt.
“Yes,” I murmur, “it was a well-coordinated ambush. Self-defense. Barely escaped with our lives.”
“Hm.” He clicks his recorder off and turns to his boss. “Consistent with Mancini’s testimony.”
Deputy Director Ferguson’s gaze pinballs between the two of us. “This won’t be our last visit.”
He storms out.
Tristan lingers at the doorway, back facing us. “Get well soon, Kent.”
He disappears.
I exhale, confusion swirling. Why did he help me?
It doesn’t matter. It’s all minuscule.
All that matters is I’m alive, and she’s here with me.
Glancing at Lana, I find her looking at me, her eyes wide and trusting.
