Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 71843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
“Don’t fuckin’ move, you piece of shit,” the guy who was putting the cuffs on me snarled, lifting my head up by my hair only to smash my face down again.
It hurt, and there was blood, but I hadn’t heard any crunch, so I didn’t think my nose was broken.
As God is my witness, the first thing that went through my head was, my husband is going to kill me.
“Twenty-three little girls, you fuck,” another guy yelled, grabbing my hair and wrenching my head sideways to look at him. “We’ll see how much you like gettin’ what you gave out.”
“There’s been a mistake,” I told him quickly. “Please, check my wallet and––”
“The only mistake is what you did to those little girls,” he rasped, clearly pained from whatever he’d seen.
I knew as soon as he looked left and then right that I was going to get hit. The punch to the abdomen doubled me over, and the punch that caught me in the jaw sent me down onto hard, cold asphalt.
When they picked me up, only then did they frisk me. They took my wallet, cell phone, and keys, and then dragged me to a car. The back door was open, and I was hurled across the seat. Left in there alone for long minutes, I struggled to sit up, and once I did, I turned my head and wiped the blood from my nose and lip on my shoulder.
Sitting there, I had a moment to think that this particular trouble, the whole being mistaken for someone else, hadn’t happened to me in ages. The way 2020 had gone, really, I was surprised it hadn’t happened earlier. I was also thankful that, with it being around thirty-four degrees outside at the moment, at least all my groceries would be fine.
Looking out the window, I saw a blond man crossing the same parking lot, and three police cars pulled out in quick succession, corralling him between them as he threw up his hands in surrender. The CPD officers rushed forward, holding guns on him and telling him to get on the ground. Other men joined them, some in uniform, some not, and then I saw the back of the jackets of the guys who had grabbed me and the letters clear as day—FBI.
More people joined the group then, and after lots of what looked like, from where I was, yelling, hand waving, and then the fully entertaining head swivel as a handful of the men turned to me, freezing to death in the back of a police car that no one had bothered to turn on.
Two men came toward the car then, both in trench coats, and one opened the right rear passenger side door, the one beside the curb, and got in. The other jogged around the car, got into the driver’s seat, and turned on the car, flipping the heater on full blast.
“Sir,” the one beside me began, clearing his throat as he turned to me. “My name is Special Agent Kevin Ferryman, and clearly there’s been a terrible––”
“I want my wallet, my phone, my car keys, and the heavy whipping cream I was carrying when I walked out of that store, and I want them all now,” I told him, starting to feel where I’d been struck, my jaw and cheek throbbing and my right wrist twinging every time I moved it.
“Yes, of course, let me—here it is,” he choked out as the door opened and one of the guys who’d hit me passed an evidence bag in to Special Agent Ferryman.
He didn’t meet my gaze, just looked at the man I assumed was his boss, and closed the door. Ferryman had me turn so he could get the cuffs off of me, and once that was done, we both saw the red grooves on my wrist, as they’d been tightened painfully, pinching my skin.
“Sir,” Ferryman began, “let me begin by saying how sorry I am about this unfortunate incident, but––”
“I need to call my husband, because I don’t think I can drive home.”
“Oh no, we’ll––”
“You’re the FBI?” I asked him.
“Yes, we’ve been running a joint task force with the Chicago PD to pick up––”
“A pedophile,” I offered. “Yeah, I got that from what your agents said to me when they were taking me into custody.”
“Yes, they—unfortunately, two of my guys jumped the gun when they––”
“Shit,” I grumbled, because my hands were shaking too hard to even push one button, and I dropped the phone in my lap. “Call Sam,” I instructed my phone.
It didn’t work, because my voice went out on me, and it was pitchy when I tried a second time. I was about to go for a third time when the passenger side door opened and a man leaned his head in. “We’re going to take the rest of—Jory?”