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Detective Nicoli smirks and flips the page over in her notepad then says, “We’ll have the warrant for a sample from him soon.”
Absently my hand drifts to my stomach to where our baby is growing, as if protecting this little one will protect Evan, but I’m quick to pull it back as one of the heavier bags slips forward on my arm.
She doesn’t need to know, but I want to tell her. I want to tell the whole world that the Evan I know could never do what they’re saying. But I don’t tell her a damn thing and I’ve given her enough of my time.
“Good for you,” I tell her and walk past her. I shove the key into the lock and turn it, but before I can open the door, the cop leans against it and waits for me to look at her.
“Please move out of my way,” I say as I seethe, my anger coming through. Anger at Evan, anger at her.
“Someone’s going down for Tony Lewis’s death.”
“Someone should, but my husband is not a murderer,” I snap. I grip the door handle tightly, feeling the intricate designs in the hard metal press against my skin. It’s freezing and the lack of circulation in my arms hurts. But I can’t let go. I don’t trust myself.
“I have nothing more to say, so I’m going inside,” I tell her, and every word comes out with conviction.
“I’ll leave my card,” she responds after two long seconds of her hazel eyes drilling into the side of my head. She slips a card into one of the bags dangling from my right arm.
I watch her walk away, biting back the comment on the tip of my tongue for her not to bother.
“What a bitch,” I spit out the second I open the door and get inside, then let the bags fall to the floor.
My body feels like ice and my arms and shoulders are killing me. My legs are weak as I lean against the door to shut it and stare absently ahead, my gaze drifting from the empty foyer to the stairs.
I want to cry.
I want to give up.
Mostly I wish I’d been a better wife. I wish I’d kept Evan from whatever the hell he did.
I know him. He didn’t do this. I don’t know what he did, but he didn’t kill anyone.
CHAPTER 2
Evan
Every second that ticks on that fucking clock makes me want to break it.
I haven’t felt like this since the first time I was brought into jail. It wasn’t here; that place was in a small town, somewhere in the bumfuck boonies outside of Chicago. This restless need to get the fuck out and handle all the hell I created is the exact same feeling I had that first night.
Tick, the clock’s minute hand moves again and I peer to my right, staring down the woman at the front desk who’s processing the paperwork for my release.
My neck cracks as I stretch out my shoulders. I haven’t slept a wink and I’m exhausted, but pure adrenaline is pumping through my veins, keeping me awake and fighting.
I need to get the hell out of here.
I knew something was off from the very beginning. James tried to fuck me over. It had to be him.
The only reason I can think of is because of Samantha, though, and that doesn’t make sense. It’s been years since we had that affair. Years for her husband to get over it. Shit, all he’s been talking about for months is how he wants their divorce to be finalized.
I lean back on the metal bench as I force myself not to look at the desk sergeant, and not to look at the clock either. My eyes focus on the abstract patterns of the cheap linoleum tiles and the sounds of the police station fade into the background as my thoughts take the forefront.
The memory of that night comes back to me.
I flinch as I remember the feel of James’s hand on my shoulder, showing me where the new rec room in the renovated hotel was and asking me if I needed anything else. My eyes close when I think about him handing me the key card and looking to his left and right before telling me to make sure I showed Tony a good time.
My lungs still and my vision turns red as my teeth grind against one another while my fists clench.
I can’t fucking handle this. If that fucker set me up to die, he’s a dead man.