It takes all my willpower to remain stone-faced. “What boyfriend?”
“You're telling me that Matvei Volkov is just an acquaintance?” The detective flips open a folder and slides a picture across the table. It shows Matvei and me on the sidewalk after the shooting at Genevieve’s and Samson's wedding.
I laugh sharply. “What Matvei Volkov was that night was a tool to help me get back at an ex. That's all. In return, he gave me money for the law firm I'm planning to start. It's all documented in a signed contract. I can provide that for you if you'd like.”
I don't look at Kelly, because she and I have too many secrets to keep a straight face.
“You expect me to believe that?” The detective arches a dark brow.
“Do you have any proof to the contrary?” I counter.
His gaze slips down to my bump.
Damn it.
“Do you want to get a warrant for a DNA sample? Or maybe just grill me about my personal sex life?” It's a dare, but I'm tired.
“We'll keep that in our back pocket for now,” the detective says smoothly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kelly trying not to roll her eyes.
“Can you tell us what happened?”
I tell them exactly what happened, for Kelly's sake but also for mine, because I have nothing to hide. No matter what this asshole cop is trying to suggest.
My mind spirals, caught between dread and disbelief as I'm taken back to the horrifying day I've been through. The edges of reality blur—every sound is amplified, every movement suspicious. In the span of minutes, my world has narrowed to the pulse beneath my skin and the weighted glances that seem to measure my guilt.
The room grows smaller as the detective continues to ask question after question, the boundaries closing in with every passing second. Genevieve's tear-streaked face flashes in my head, her grief raw and unfiltered. My brain scrambles for meaning as I recount every single detail, wondering if there was something I missed, something else I should have noticed.
The uncertainty gnaws at me, feeding the fear that maybe, in some way, I'm already implicated just by being here.
Finally, the detective decides he's finished. Either that, or he's grown tired of questioning me. He pushes to his feet, gives me a stern look as he tells me not to leave the city, then strides out, leaving Kelly and me alone.
“Thank God,” I groan, trying to stretch the kinks out of my back. “This chair is possibly the most uncomfortable thing I've ever sat on.”
“It's not supposed to be comfortable,” Kelly points out and smiles a rough smile, one that's missing her usual warmth. “What the hell is going on, Sonya? What the fuck happened?”
“Exactly what I told you. And that's all I know. It was horrifying, Kells. He just fell and started seizing, making these horriblenoises like he was trying to escape his own body and whatever was happening within it. I don't think it was a heart attack.” I shiver at the memory.
Kelly's mouth presses together, and I know she wants to say something but can't.
“I'm sorry to put you in this bad spot. But I'm glad you're here.”
“Where the hell else would I be but pulling your ass out of trouble yet again? Seriously, is it your perfume or something?” I'm glad to see her being herself, to see the spark back in her green eyes.
“I wish I knew,” I sigh.
The chair scrapes against the floor with a cringe-inducingscreechas Kelly stands up and motions for me to follow. “I called you-know-who to come get you.”
“Just don't let Detective Nixon know.” I nudge her shoulder with mine as she leads me out of the interrogation room.
Every shadow seems stretched and unfamiliar, as if each one is complicit in what took place today. There's a hollow ringing in my ears, and for a moment, I can't tell if it's the echo of sirens or the pounding rush of my own blood. The officers' voices fade into a distant hum, and all I can do is clutch the thin hope that the truth, whatever it is, won't shatter me.
The fluorescent hallway lights flicker overhead as Kelly ushers me to a different room, our shoes squeaking against the floor. Somewhere down the corridor, voices murmur, the thud of boots mingling with the faint, metallic scent of fear. I grip the cuffs of my sweater sleeves, fighting the tremor in my fingers, tryingdesperately to hold on to reality as the walls seem to narrow around me.
My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears as we walk. The detective’s questions along with my own linger, swirling in my mind like smoke, impossible to grasp or ignore. I wonder if the world outside will ever feel safe again, or if some shadow of this moment will follow me wherever I go.
27
MATVEI
