Page 82 of The Broken Keys

“You witnessed the accident. I need details.” His tone is professional but not unkind. “The black SUV that fled the scene, did you get a look at the driver?”

The man who did this and then drove away like Livianna’s life didn’t matter.

“Yeah, I saw him. He had dark hair. I’d say he was around forty, maybe a little older.” My head swims in a surreal daze.

“Anything else you want to add?”

“The SUV didn’t have a license plate. It was a newermodel, black. It could’ve been a Chevy Tahoe or something similar. The front was pretty messed up after he hit her.”

The officer writes quickly. “Did you notice anything else? Any distinguishing features on the vehicle or the driver?”

I close my eyes, trying to pull the image back. It happened so fast, but I force myself to remember.

“The windows were really dark, heavily tinted. I couldn’t see if there was anyone else inside with him.” I pause, my stomach twisting. “He looked directly at me before he drove off. It was like he knew exactly what he was doing.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, it didn’t look like he was panicking or scared. It looked calculated and deliberate. Like he was making sure I saw him before he left the scene.”

The officer’s pen stops moving. “Are you saying you think this was intentional?”

Was it?

The SUV came barreling through that intersection, driving way too fast for this area. There was no attempt to brake before the impact. And then the way the driver stared at me with that cold, assessing glare before he peeled out.

“I don’t know for sure.” I drag my hand through my hair. “But something about it felt wrong. It didn’t feel like an accident.”

The officer nods and continues writing. “What’s your relationship to the victim?”

Victim. The word makes acid rise in my throat.

“She’s important to me. We’re close.” I can’t bring myself to explain more than that because I don’t actually know what we are anymore.

“I’ll need your contact information in case we have follow-up questions.”

I give him my number with a growing unease creeping through me. He tells me I should take her valuables out of her car and hands me a card with a case number printed on it.

“Mr. Mayze, if you remember anything else, no matter how small, call this number.” He strides away.

I’m left standing there with emergency vehicles. Their reds and blues still flash around me. The smell of burnt rubber and gasoline is thick in the air, making me nauseous.

Livianna’s car sits crumpled against the light pole, a twisted mass of metal that used to be sleek and beautiful. Shattered glass sparkles across the asphalt like it’s showing off the destruction.

I move in slow motion, retrieve her purse, and check for anything else she might need. Once I’m sure I have everything, I rush to my car to leave for the hospital.

Her phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out with shaking hands. It’s another text.

My King:I’m at the house. When do you think you’ll be here?

My jaw clenches. This man, whoever the hell he is, has no idea what just happened.

He has no idea that while he was sitting there waiting for her, she was being cut out of her mangled car with blood streaming down her face and his child growing in her stomach.

I should text him back and tell him there’s been an accident. He should know she’s on her way to the hospital and might not make it.

But I don’t.

Instead, I shove the phone back in my pocket, climb into my car, and pull onto the road heading toward the hospital.