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And there will be a price.
There is already a price.
That price was my father. It won’t be Damion.
Chapter Two
Alana
I’m protecting Damion.
I repeat those words in my head over and over, as I have for days on end.
My actions have consequences, and none of them will hurt him. That’s my vow, which I intend to keep no matter the discomfort or the backlash to me personally. Call me a vigilante, I guess, because when someone is evil and untouchable by the law, what else is left but such an action?
So yes, it guts me to ignore Damion even for one more second, but it’s necessary and part of protecting him. It also guts me to ignore the press, to whom I want to say everything and more, but strategy matters. I’ll hold one press conference, allow an army of press to be set free all at once, and then lawyer up, which means shut up. The truth is, my attorney is in the dark with good reason. I’m not ready for her to force me to be logical or safe.
That comes later.
For now, the ride to the police station is far too long. Time passes as slow as molasses, as my father used to say of my mother’s getting ready for any event they attended, a memory that twists me in knots. He loved her. I thought she loved him, too, but I just don’t know what to think anymore. I’m not sure any thought I have even matters. She’s still my mother, and I have to save her, even from herself.
Finally, we arrive at the police station, and the driver pulls us to the front of the steps. Craig exits first, and I join him. We’re just about to start the climb when two men in suits beeline for me. I expect them to be press, and Craig must as well; he steps in front of me, sheltering me with his big body. “Step back,” he orders. But I’m quickly sideswiped, my heart racing, when one of the men states, “FBI.”
My brow furrows, and adrenaline pulses through me.
FBI? Why is the FBI cornering me at the police station? It feels off. It feels dirty. It feels dangerous.
My mind races as quickly as my heart’s thundering pace, and my rapid-fire conclusion is that there’s no running from this, and if running was what I had in mind, I wouldn’t be here anyway. I move firmly to Craig’s side, confidence I do not feel in the actions. “What can I do for you?” I ask, hopeful that this is about my father’s murder, but deep in my gut, I know it’s not. It’s about West Senior hurting me, and I may well be about to be arrested, even if I have no clue for what.
Both men are in crisp-looking suits, a typical TV brand of FBI arrogance dripping from their very presence. The tallest of the two men, a dark-haired man in glasses, pins me in a stare. “Ms. Blue?”
“That’s right,” I say, and I resist the urge to fold my arms in front of my body, which translates to a sheltering action, a defensive action. I will not give away how I feel to these men. “I’m Alana Blue. What can I do for you?”
The other man, a short, bulky man with a shiny bald head, says, “We’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”
Unease is a steel blade down my spine. “About what?” I ask.
“We’ll get to that,” the man in the glasses replies. “We need you to come with us.”
Everything inside me screams of warning. How do I know they’re really FBI? I tell myself there will be cameras on us even as we speak. Someone will know who they are or are not. Unless they don’t, I warn myself. Cameras can be wiped. And an FBI badge does not define the character of the person holding it. My spine straightens. “You can talk to my attorney to arrange that meeting.”
“It’s a simple conversation,” the bald man states. “Just a casual talk.”
“Then casually talk to my attorney,” I say. “Give me your card, and I’ll have her contact you.”
He smirks. “You don’t have an attorney.”
I don’t justify the comment meant to create unease in me. I simply ask, “Am I being arrested?”
“You are not,” the man in the glasses states, and he hands me his card. “But you need to know that we’re going to have this conversation one way or another.” He motions to the other man and turns and walks away.
I rotate to face Craig. “Was the badge legit?”
“I don’t know,” he says grimly. “Looked like it to me, but I’m not sure that means a lot. Counterfeiting is an easy craft these days. And they felt dirty. They felt like lions beating back a kitten before she walks inside the police station. You going to be a kitten, or are you going to walk inside?”
Something about the remark sits wrong with me—a clawing sensation carving me inside out. Craig is law enforcement, and what felt like security before begins to set off alerts. What if West Senior gets away with what he gets away with because he’s deep inside law enforcement?
“I need to make a phone call,” I announce, and step away from him, pulling up my Uber app to call a ride. The alert says the driver is three minutes away, and I punch confirm.
