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Chapter 3 – Egor
The man’s palms went banging down on the iron table between us, and he sucked a breath through his teeth. “Fucking answer me already, dammit! Tell me what happened that night, Mr. Yezhov. Don’t make me go hard on you.”
Like the coward even fucking could.
I sighed, rolled my eyes, and clasped my hands on my knees. When I locked gazes with the brunette guard by the door, he shifted uncomfortably and hovered a hand over the butt of the gun tucked between his belt. Funny how they were still terrified of my presence in the room, even with the cuffs on.
The officer across the table—the one that resembled a Japanese animation character, with the uneven blond haircut and green eyes—looked even more displeased, fucking irritated, and was squeamish himself. He backed off the table and inhaled deeply with shut eyes while I watched in amusement.
I spared a glance at his name tag.
Officer Clinton.
With a resigned sigh, he turned back to the table. “God, this is so fucking infuriating. Look here, Mr. Yezhov, you’re a grown-ass man. You have to understand that making this…this process easy for us will make it easier for you. You just have to….” He gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw like he struggled with using the most appropriate words to construct a sentence. “You just have to fucking open your mouth first tosaysomething, okay?”
I blinked.
And his cheeks turned to a ridiculous red hue. Fury. Rage. Anger.
Again, the palms went down on the table, the sound bouncing off the walls. “Goddamit!” he hissed under his breath and started rapid-firing questions.
“Why did you have a knife that night, Mr. Yezhov? Did you intend to murder Mr. Gallagher?”
Why, yes, I did. But of course, I wasn’t going to give thekindofficer the satisfaction of knowing that I’d wanted to off Ronan’s head with the dagger. He was just going to have to figure that part out on his own.
“We have eyewitnesses at The Reindeer Hotel who saw you enter the building. Security footage records you in the hallway making your way to Mr. Gallagher’s room.”
Where he fucked a whore that I paid.Well, almost fucked. Incredible. Did the eyewitnesses disclose that part, too, or was the story one-sided?
Officer Clinton leaned forward, his voice firm but controlled. “Mr. Yezhov, we have evidence that suggests your intention to murder Mr. Gallagher. Your fingerprints were found on the weapon used in the attack. Care to explain that?"
Un-fucking-believable.
I wasthisclose to losing my shit but relaxed, crossed one leg over the other, and leaned back with a poker face. Normally, I’d snort at his low-level IQ whack interrogation questions, but I couldn’t even find the strength.
Why the fuck did he ask me why I had a knife then?
Surely, I wasn’t starting a cooking class with Ronan, or was I?
Frankly, I found this—the entire process, the cursing and desperate pleading to have me speak—quite boring. This officer was a quack. A fucking amateur was what he was. He didn’t know shit about doing the job.
Someone, please, get this idiot out of here.
As if someone actually did hear my thoughts, the door buzzed and opened, and another person walked in, black boots clicking on the floor.
The officer backed off the table, but I could only stare as the magnificent creature strode into the room.
Playtime was over.
Finally, something pleasant to feast my eyes on.
Having lived over four decades, I could say I’d had my fair share of women: the beautiful ones, gorgeous ones, elegant ones. But never any woman like her. With striking beauty, she was the type that made heads turn—so much to see, yet minimum on display.
She was soft and easy on the eyes with smooth, pale-gold skin, dark hair sitting pretty on her head in a thick, messy bun, and a straight blue shirt and black pants that meant no-nonsense.
She smiled subtly, and her lips curved upwards in a way that made me curious. Despite her young appearance, she carried herself with class and confidence. Confidence that poor excuse of a man—Officer Clinton—lacked.
Whoever this was, she’d successfully snagged my attention—as well as the officer’s.
