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A plume of cigarette smoke dances through the air. I spot the lit cherry immediately when it burns a deep shade of red. Leaning against the wall, I look at the table where the mask sits. My eyes roam the dark figure as he stands, staring out of the window. The moonlight of the city dancing off the large silhouette.
Moving through the living room, I see my reflection in the window as I approach. I know he can see it, too. Pressing my chest into his back, I lace my arms around his torso, burying my nose into his clothes, and I inhale deeply. I feel his body stiffen for a moment before he relaxes and his shoulders sag slightly. His leather-gloved hand, glides over mine.
“Who are you?” I whisper softly.
Reaching for the mask, he slides it over his face before turning to me. Taking a couple of steps back, he gently reaches out and runs the back of his hand over my cheek. My eyes flutter close, whilst a single tear escapes.
His hand moves down my neck to my arm and eventually takes my hand and interlocking our fingers as he guides me towards the single armchair in the room. Taking a seat, I watch whilst he moves to the kitchen. After a moment and some light clicking, he re-enters with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey in his hands.
Pouring two generous measures, he passes one to me, before taking his own and moving back to the chair by the window. I sit silently, with my hands wrapped around the glass. I force down the knot in my throat, Two/Face places the tumbler on the table beside him, gently swirling the glass.
“Who are you?”
I force the words out again, as he stops whirling liquid in the glass. The dark mask turns to me and I watch with bated breath, waiting for the answer I so desperately want.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Bhodi?
Eight years ago…
Each time I hear that fucking overpaid mouthpiece talk, I feel my entire jaw tense. I’ve been grinding my teeth for the entire trial. The only defense tactic that cunt can come up with is to blame the victims, paint them as whores and make sure their client is seen as an upstanding member of the community who often helps charities and the dispossessed.
Does he fuck, the guy is a fucking predator.
I feel the tension weighing my body down, the pressure building in my temples as though someone has my head in a fucking vice. Glancing along the row, I spot the case detective practically falling asleep. With him due to retire soon, he’s barely fucking interested in this case. He showed little interest at the scene and has proven to be a useless piece of shit ever since.
As Elijah Elom delivers his closing argument, I watch the young red head turn around and look straight at me. Her light green eyes filled with sadness and lost of all hope, as they have been from the moment I first met her.
She’s been painted as a liar, a whore, a gold digger, and they’ve even gone so far as to try and accuse her of extorting money out of Luca Bernardi. Apparently, asking for your wages from your employer is now extorting money. But as I look to the jury, I can see the admiration radiating off them as they gaze upon this fucking choir boy that sits at the defense table.
Pamela James was found, along with her friend Lisa, beaten, raped, and left in an abandoned pop-up brothel to die. Neighbors complained when water began to spill into the downstairs apartment. Pamela had managed to crawl towards the bathroom, block the plug, and let the water run free, her last-ditch attempt at calling for help.
As one the first responding officers, we entered the apartment with weapons and torches drawn. The thick stench of drugs and body odor was almost unbearable, as though it was woven into every fabric in the property. We went through each room, stepping over needles, debris, loose clothing, and blood spatter.
Stepping into the bathroom, I called for help and an ambulance immediately. I rolled Pamela over but was sure she’d already passed. Her face was so badly beaten, stained with blood, and swollen; I had no idea how she would have been able to breathe. Gently placing my fingertips on her neck, I felt my eyes widen when I felt a faint pulse.
“I need an ambulance in here now!” I repeatedly screamed the demand through the entire apartment until the paramedics arrived.
I cradled Pamela in my arms and kept talking to her, hoping she could hear my words and hold on for a little while longer. Once the paramedics arrived, I moved away and stepped outside as the detective assigned to the case arrived.
“Detective Donavon.” The older man holds his hand out to me, while he smoked a cigarette. His appearance in that moment put me off striving towards my gold shield.
“Officer Grey, and this is Officer Randle.” I gesture to my patrol partner as he walks out of the building, shaking his head.
“What have we got?” The detective looks between us, observing the Medical Examiner entering the apartment and the paramedics leaving with the young girl.
“Two girls found in the fourth-floor apartment, one dead, but the other is still holding on.”
“Did she say anything?”
I shake my head, running a weary hand over my face. “No, she’s in a really bad way.”
“Any idea what went on here?”
“We’re canvassing, but as you’d expect, no one wants to speak. The place has all the makings of a pop-up brothel, though.”
“It looks like whoever was here left in a hurry.” Officer Donavon interjects, and I just nod.
