I need an attorney and not just any attorney.
Kora Ivanov's face appears. She wins. She always has. She'd tear through this place and leave a path wide enough for me to walk out untouched, but she's not an option.
She's Blue's aunt, and that changes everything. If Kora steps in, the entire family machine wakes up. Questions get asked that don't need answers yet. Blue becomes a problem to be solved instead of a person to be protected, and I won't do that to her.
The Ivanovs will find out eventually.
My stomach sinks, and my pulse ticks. Adrian might actually kill me.
One problem at a time,I remind myself.
A public defender crosses my mind and quickly dies. This isn't a minor problem. I need someone who knows how to end things cleanly.
A voice drifts in from the next cell. "Hey, you got a smoke?"
"No," I reply and return to pacing.
"Cline," a guard with gray at his temples barks, passes me, then keys clink down the hall. A door creaks open and slams shut.
The guard leads a detainee in bloody, ripped jeans past my cell, and they disappear through a door.
"Might want to get comfy. You could be here for days," my cellmate states.
I turn away from him, my chest tightening, trying again to figure out who I can hire to get me out of this predicament.
Several minutes pass, and the guard reappears, barking out, "Mercer."
I lunge toward the bars. "That's me."
"Hands through," he replies, gaze steady.
I slide my wrists forward, palms open. The cuffs close with a familiar cold snap. He unlocks the door and nods once. "Walk."
We move through corridors that twist just enough to disorient. Cameras blink in corners. Painted lines on the floor pass under my feet. The air shifts as we go deeper, with less bleach, more stale coffee, and something sour I can't decipher.
I ask, "Am I being charged?"
"Keep walking." He grabs my elbow and steers me down another hallway.
My heart beats harder against my chest cavity.
He stops at a door that looks newer than the rest. The guard knocks once and opens it.
A tall and broad-shouldered man stands. His dark hair is swept back from his sharp features. The tailored black suit, cut with intent, fits him in a way only money can accomplish. His pale eyes lock onto mine, cold and precise, measuring without hurry. He orders, "Take off his cuffs."
The guard unlocks the metal and releases the restraints. He leaves the room and shuts the door.
I rub the skin on my left wrist.
"Dr. Mercer, have a seat," he orders, accent faint and polished.
I don't move. "Who are you?"
"Mikhail Volkov." He takes one unhurried step closer, stopping at the edge of my reach. "I represent interests that prefer you upright."
"Get to the point," I say, confused.
His mouth hints at a smile that never reaches his eyes. "Nikolai Sokolov asked me to come."
