Page 106 of Mr. Match

But it’s not really ironic. He would’ve raped her. He did rape her. How many times, I might never know. But if anyone deserves the title of rapist, it’s Lucio Gori Senior.

I just wish he was alive so he’d have a chance to experience what it’s like to live with that label.

We are all taken to the police station. West and me and Pax in one end of the small holding area. Katya and Mrs. Conrad somewhere else out of sight. Mariel is there too, explaining how Pax and I heard the girl calling for help when we were walking up to visit her and ran to her aid.

Pax is grinning the whole time.

West, on the other hand…

“Weston,” his mother kept screaming, as she was handcuffed. “Tell them who I am! Tell them—”

He never even looked at her.

I have no idea where his father is, but he won’t get away.

Any time now the new evidence is gonna come in. I wait for it. I hope I am here to see it happen.

But no such luck. Nolan’s lawyers arrive and start throwing their weight around and two hours later, we have given the statements Mariel made us memorize this morning and we are all released.

When will I stop hoping?

When do I ever get lucky?

Chapter Fifty - KATYA

A man appears after I’ve sat in this interrogation room for hours. One of the lady cops gave me some clothes to change into, seeing as how mine were covered in Lucio Gori Senior’s blood. A t-shirt that says, of all things, Harvard. And a pair of sweats, too many sizes too big to count.

So I guess there’s that.

I guess they’ll be keeping mine for the murder trial.

The man is large, wearing a trench coat, and he smells like the outside. He plops an old briefcase on the metal table as he takes a seat, and then flicks the little lock thingies and it pops open. He says nothing as he shuffles through it, then slaps a folder down on the table, and closes his case. “Katya Kalashova,” he says with a Russian accent.

I just stare at him. If I’m going down for murder, I’m not gonna make this easy on them.

“My name is Alexi Ivanov.” He opens the folder, removes a single piece of paper, slides it forward with a push of his finger, and then leans back in his chair. “This is your statement. Please sign.”

Curiosity has gotten the better of me. “My what?”

“Statement,” he says again. “You would like to go home? Hmmm? Then sign here.” He pulls a pen out of his jacket and places it on top of the paper.

I can’t help myself, I reach for the paper and begin to read. When I get to the end I look at him again. “What is this?”

He frowns at me. “Do I have a stutter?”

“No. I’m just confused.”

“If you sign paper, you go home. Now sign.” He taps his massive finger on the table three times. “Your car will pick you up after processing.”

I read the statement again. “Am I—”

“No,” Ivanov says before I can finish. “Just. Sign.”

“But it says—”

“I know what it says. I wrote it.”

I look around nervously. “You can’t say things like that. And you can’t come in here with a pre-written police statement and tell me to sign it. This is the United States. It’s not legal.”