Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59199 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59199 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
I’m not convinced. She wants me to relax around her so that I’ll give evidence against Dane.
My teeth worry at my lower lip as she steps into the open-plan kitchen and finds tea in the cupboard. This rented penthouse is well stocked, so I’m not surprised that she easily finds what she’s looking for.
In the few minutes it takes her to boil the kettle, I take several deep breaths and struggle to untangle my thoughts.
“How do you take it?” she asks, as though she’s my gracious host.
I don’t drink tea unless it’s iced and has heaps of sugar, but I’m chilled to the bone, so I decide that a hot drink is a good idea.
“Lots of milk and three sugars, please,” I request.
She tries and fails to hide a grimace.
I shake my head slightly to clear it. If she wants to be friendly, I need to keep things cordial. An adversarial tone won’t get me out of this.
Exchanging verbal barbs won’t save Dane.
It’s an automatic thought, and I try to ignore it. I’m not at all certain that Dane should be freed from police custody.
He’s dangerous.
“Sorry,” I apologize as Officer Singh approaches me with the cup of tea that she clearly finds offensively sweet. “I should’ve made a cup for you.”
“It’s not a problem,” she replies, settling down on the plush cream armchair beside where I’m perched on the edge of a matching couch. “I’m sure this is very difficult for you.”
I cut my gaze away from hers and look out at the view of York Minster and the distant countryside that’s visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Only yesterday, I marveled at the perfection of this stunning place and the fact that I was sharing it with Dane, my dark god.
I take a sip of tea and don’t reply in any way, not even to nod in agreement. The hot liquid is still too bitter on my tongue, even though it’s sweetened with sugar and diluted with milk. I force myself to swallow it down, and I welcome the warmth that suffuses my chest. At least it chases the worst of the chill away.
“I’d like to get a clearer picture of what happened to Stephen Lansing,” she continues, and her soft tone doesn’t reach her sharp brown eyes. “You were the last person to meet with him, according to the schedule we found on his tablet. He took thorough notes of your meeting, and the last entry was timestamped around his estimated time of death. We’ll know more as we process the scene, but now you have an opportunity to help us understand Dr. Graham’s motives.”
I press my lips together. I have no idea what to say, what I even want to say.
I could tell her the truth: that Stephen drugged me and tried to rape me.
Dane didn’t have to kill him in order to save me, though. That doesn’t excuse what he did.
When I think about the fact that Stephen is dead, I don’t feel a shred of distress. If he wanted to violate me like that, he could do it to another woman. Maybe he already has.
The world is a safer place without him in it.
But Dane has implicated me in the murder. I didn’t kill Stephen with my own hands, but in a way, I’m responsible.
“I don’t know what happened,” I say, skirting around the truth.
I don’t remember anything about last night other than disjointed, hazy memories of fear and despair.
And Dane’s fierce green eyes when he caressed my cheek and said, Don’t watch, Abigail. I’ll take care of this. I’ll take care of you.
When I woke up in his arms an hour ago, I’d been shocked to learn of Stephen’s death. It’s not entirely a lie that I don’t know the details of what happened to him.
Officer Singh’s lips pinch to a thin line, the only sign that she’s irritated with my reticent response. “Dr. Graham didn’t say anything to you about Stephen Lansing before we arrived? Where was he last night between ten and midnight? Was he with you?”
“Yes. He was with me.” Another true statement that doesn’t fully answer her question.
I’ve always been a terrible liar, so sticking as close to the truth as possible is my best course of action for now. Until I can clear my head enough to sort out how I want to handle this nightmare.
The sound of the penthouse door opening makes me jolt, and I whirl to face the stranger.
A heavyset, balding man in a charcoal gray suit strides toward me with confident steps that border on arrogance.
“Who are you?” All the warmth has drained from Officer Singh’s tone.
“I’m John Wells, Miss Foster’s solicitor,” he replies, his pale blue eyes fixing on me through his rectangular, black-rimmed glasses. “She’s done talking to you.”
The officer stiffens. “We’re simply having a conversation. Miss Foster isn’t under arrest.”