Page 46 of Duress (Birch Falls #3)

EVERLY

W hen I finally walk out of the police station, it’s dark outside.

Jessica arrived forty minutes after I got off the phone with Dad, resting bitch face and power suit in place.

We had a brief chat before the investigating officers came in to do their questioning.

I will forever be grateful for her presence.

Between the nerves, concussion, fatigue, and oppressive guilt weighing on me, I don’t think I would have gotten through the interrogation without winding up in jail.

She interjected when needed and kept me from saying anything that would make the officers inclined to think what happened was more than a case of self-defense gone tragically wrong.

There is a chill in the brisk fall air as the wind blows, but I don’t mind it as much now that I’m outside. The fresh air helps revive me some after being trapped in the interrogation room, with the stagnant air and stale smell of burnt coffee in the air, for hours on end.

“Do you have somewhere to stay? Your dad told me to make sure you’re taken care of before I head back into the city. I can book a hotel room for you on my corporate card until your house is no longer considered a crime scene.”

I stop in my tracks, turning to face Jessica. She’s looking down at her phone, scrolling through a hotel booking website, already looking for a place.

“I can’t go home?” I’m honestly not sure if I want to go home, but it hadn’t occurred to me that I wouldn’t even have the option.

“I can take you by to pick up some clothes and necessities, but it’s still considered a crime scene until the investigation is completed, so you can’t stay there.

It shouldn’t take more than a few days, but then there will be clean up needed.

Sounds like it might’ve gotten bloody.” Jessica doesn’t look up when she responds; she just taps on her phone more.

In the last few hours I’ve learned she is a no-bullshit kind of person.

She doesn’t coddle, she doesn’t let men steam roll over her, and she doesn’t mince words.

She can be abrasive, but I can already tell her attitude is the exact reason why she is good at her job.

She doesn’t let emotion rule her. She doesn’t let anything get under her skin.

“I’ve got you three nights booked at the Magnolia. That will give you enough time to figure out what you want to do next. Hopefully they’ll have the investigation wrapped up by then, but we can reassess in a few days.”

My stomach turns at the thought of staying at the Magnolia. It holds painful memories of the moment I truly realized how fucking depraved my husband is—was—but it’s still better than going home and seeing where Dane almost bled out thanks to Bryce.

“D-do you think they’ll arrest me? Bryce had a lot of powerful friends.

Do you think they’ll make trouble for me?

” A gust of wind blows, causing goose bumps to erupt over my skin, reminding me I’m still wearing flimsy hospital scrubs.

This question catches Jessica’s attention, and she finally looks up from her phone.

“Not if I have anything to do with it. We have a solid case for self-defense with your documented injuries. It’s obvious Bryce was out of control and would’ve killed you if given the chance.

Plus he went after Dane, and the boys in blue look after their own.

Sometimes a little too well. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.

” Her warm brown eyes soften with empathy, reassuring me just enough to let the tension out of my shoulders.

I nod, blinking back the fresh tears threatening to fall. Whether they’re from relief, exhaustion, or just being overwhelmed, I’m not sure. All I know is I want to take a hot bath and sleep for the next three days.

I open my mouth to say something else, but she puts up a finger, stopping me.

“Don’t say anything else until we are somewhere private.

Let’s go get your stuff, and I’ll drop you off at the Magnolia.

We will meet for breakfast in the morning and go over everything, okay?

You need to rest.” She gently takes me by the elbow and guides me to the sleek black Audi parked a few feet away.

Once I’m in the passenger seat, my body cradled by the supple leather, Jessica turns on the heater, and I find myself unable to fight the urge to close my eyes, letting exhaustion pull me under.

I fall asleep to the soft, soothing voice of a NPR correspondent reading off the day’s headlines.

After Jessica gets me checked into a suite at the Magnolia, assuring me all of the expenses are being covered by my dad, I take a long, hot bath before collapsing into bed.

I fall into the deepest sleep I’ve ever experienced—the full body shutdown after an adrenaline crash is not to be underestimated.

The next morning, I wake up, disoriented and confused by the unfamiliar surroundings but feeling slightly less like run over roadkill.

My head still aches, and my vision is still blurry from the concussion, but the bone-deep exhaustion is finally gone.

The clock on the night stand reads 9:08 a.m. I slept for twelve straight hours.

No wonder I have no fucking clue where I am.

Groggily, I fumble around for my phone, to see if there are any messages waiting for me.

I was so tired last night, I forgot to call my dad to let him know I had been released.

I hate myself for even daring to hope that there is a message from Dane waiting for me.

My heart clenches painfully when I see the only thing waiting for me is a text from Jessica.

Not even a missed call from my dad checking in?

I guess that answers the question of if it was me or his reputation he was more worried about.

Jessica

I’ll be at the hotel by 10. I’ll bring pastries and coffee.

Tea is normally my preferred morning beverage—caffeine makes me feel anxious—but I have a feeling this conversation is going to require something with a bit more oomph to it.

I wonder briefly if I could convince her to stop by the liquor store so we can make those coffees Irish.

Then there is sharp throb at my temple reminding me I’m concussed and alcohol is probably a bad idea.

I pop a few extra strength Tylenol before brushing my teeth and splashing water on my face, readying myself for the day.

Looking in the mirror, I can still see dark circles shadowing my eyes, and the hair on the back of my head is thinner where the hospital staff shaved a patch in order to stitch up the gash I received during the struggle with Bryce.

There are dark purple smudges on my neck where Bryce wrapped his hands around it, and there is a tender raised place on the side of my head.

Cuts from the broken glass dot along my arms in a gruesome pattern.

How many scars will I be left with to remind me of the worst day of my life?

Jessica’s sharp, efficient knock brings me out of the whirlpool of sorrow threatening to pull me under.

Right. I have to keep my shit together. When I open the door, Jessica waltzes in, a box of pastries and two coffees balanced in one hand while her other pulls her rolling briefcase behind her.

Her expression is all business; her stride so smooth the coffees don’t even shake as she crosses the room.

I have a feeling this is only half the amount of bad bitch energy she commands in the courtroom, and that puts me at ease.

She wastes no time in setting up her laptop and getting out a camera. I’m puzzled about why she has a camera, but I don’t say anything. Instead I eye the box of pastries sitting on the table, and my stomach lets out an obscenely loud rumble, reminding me I haven’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours.

“Borborygmus.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I shake my head at the nonsensical word Jessica just casually dropped while typing on her laptop.

“Borborygmus. It’s the word for the sound your stomach makes when it growls.”

“Oookaay…” I’m not sure how to respond to the non-sequitur, so I just pluck a scone from the box and take a bite. It’s cranberry-orange, my favorite. Closing my eyes, I take a moment to savor the citrusy-sweet confection.

“Sorry, I’m not good at small talk. If you haven’t noticed from the RBF, I’m not exactly a people person. I’ve been told little known facts or trivia can be a good icebreaker.”

I blink, staring at Jessica’s impassive face, and realize she is one hundred percent serious. Okay, at least now I know what I’m working with.

“Right. Well, we’re good. You brought me sugar and carbs, and I’m currently not sitting in a jail cell, so you’re my favorite person at the moment.” I flash her a grateful smile before taking another bite of scone.

She gives me a tight smile before adjusting the camera on the tripod.

“I want to document your injuries and record our version of events while it’s still fresh.

So far I haven’t heard of any official charges being brought against you, but I want to go ahead and establish our case for self-defense and head it off at the pass if we can.

You have a very strong case already, and combined with Dane’s statement, I think you’ll be in good shape.

Even if Bryce had friends in high places, I doubt they’d be willing to tarnish their reputation to defend a wife beater once your story comes out. ”

“Comes out?” I blink as my brain slowly processes Jessica’s rapid-fire stream of words.

“We will tell the world what kind of monster Bryce was and how he hurt you. We will make him look like the biggest POS since Scott Peterson. You get public sympathy on your side early, and they won’t dream of bringing up charges.”

I think about her words, and it’s not the getting away with murder part that kindles a spark of excitement in my chest. It’s the telling the world what kind of person Bryce Carmichael really was part that ignites a fire inside of me.

He may not have to pay for what he did to Jake, but maybe if I shine a light on his willingness to tamper with witnesses and evidence, I can help other victims of his corruption get justice.

“Let’s do it.”

Jessica leaves after the most grueling six hours of my life.

She makes me recount every instance of manipulation, coercion, gaslighting and abuse that Bryce put me through.

She has me tell her about the night of the gala, when he tried to dangle me in front of Shane as a bribe for making a backroom deal for one of his clients.

She makes me recall everything in vivid detail—going back, repeating details, lining up timelines, confirming facts as she’s able when I give dates and times.

She is not leaving any openings for someone to weasel in and discredit my version of events.

She photographs the blotchy purple bruises on my neck and arms and the stitches on my head.

When she leaves the hotel room, I am wrung out and hollow.

My face is red and puffy from crying, but now I am empty.

Empty of tears. Of feelings. I poured out every bit of resentment, guilt, fear, anger, sadness, and hurt into telling my story.

I hope it’s enough.

Enough to destroy whatever reputation and goodwill Bryce ever had. He doesn’t deserve to be remembered as a good man. He doesn’t deserve to be mourned. I know if Caroline hears all this she will be devastated, but this is the least I can do for Dane. I can show him I’m on his side.

I know there is still a distinct possibility of Dane opening an investigation into his father’s death, and if he does, I won’t fight it. As my last act of contrition, I decide to write Dane a letter, letting him know the ball is in his court now .

When I finish with the letter, I send Serena a text asking if she’d be willing to deliver it to Dane for me.

I know a letter is the coward’s way out, but I can’t face him and see the hate he must have for me in his eyes.

I want to remember what we had before it all went to shit.

It’s selfish of me, but it’s all I have left at this point.