She presses her fingertips to her lips. “I’m sorry, Guy. I can’t.”
She rushes by me and up the stairs, and I stare after her.
Maybe I pushed too hard. Maybe I’m not being clear about what I want. But do I even know? I know I want her here, but for what? A casual relationship? A serious one? A ringtone pierces the quiet, and I answer my phone.
“Gibson.”
“Chief,” Winston says. “Boy, do I have one hell of a late Christmas gift for you. Guess who was just found dead?”
I frown. “Who?”
“Richard Mason,” he says, and I freeze in place. “His wife was away for the holidays, and when she came back, she found his body. Suicide. Gunshot wound to the head. And you know what’s even better? He filmed a full confession. He admitted to killing Erin and the girls, even mentioned things we never released to the press. You were right, Guy.”
I was right. I knew it, always did, but …
My gaze lifts to the stairs, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“When did he die?”
“Coroner says he estimates it to be Christmas Eve.”
I don’t know what it is. Instinct, or at this point maybe even common fucking sense, but I know the truth. “I’ll call you back.” I hang up and sprint up the stairs. Once I reach Monty’s door, I throw it open.
She’s by the window, and when she faces me, she wipes away tears.
Anger bounds through me, because if I’m right, she did this for me, and that’s not what I fucking wanted. It isn’t the kind of man or cop I am.
“Are those tears real or fake?”
She stares at me. “What?”
“Did you kill Richard Mason?”
Facing me fully, she takes a breath. “No. I didn’t even know he was dead.”
I step farther into the room. “Really? So you just so happened to invite over three cops the night he died? One hell of an alibi for both of us.”
She glares at me. “I was here all night, Guy, yousawme.”
“I saw you for five fucking minutes! You were up here!” I bellow. “Tell me the truth for once in your damn life, Monty. Did you kill Richard Mason?”
I’ve never seen her so angry, but I won’t back down. My instincts have never failed me, not once.
“I didn’t fucking kill him!” she screams.
My breathing is fast, my heart racing a mile a damn minute. I snatch out the envelope from my back pocket, take out the blue card, and toss it at her feet. She looks down at it, then back at me.
“Did you kill Richard Mason?” I demand. “There, that’s my fucking question. Did you, or didn’t you?”
Her chest rises and falls with quickened breaths. Seconds stack between us, the tension in the room like gulping down smoke.
“Yes.” I almost rear back. She lifts her chin, as if daring me to question her. “I held a gun to his head, I filmed him confessing, then I shot him.”
The room feels like it’s closing in on me. Anger thunders through my veins, and with every second that I replay her words, my fury grows.
This can’t be happening. This isn’t justice. This isn’t the fucking law.
“You murdered him.”
