Page 96 of Held-
There are exactlytwenty-seven ceiling tiles in this interrogation room. I’ve counted them four times, tracing the water stains that spread across the corners in rusty blooms. Detective Simmons thinks his silence will wear me down, but silence is just another weapon in a man’s arsenal. I’ve lived through far worse than a sterile room with a flickering fluorescent light.
“Ms. Montgomery,” he tries again, tapping his pen against his notepad with measured impatience. “We can do this all day if necessary.”
I shift in the unforgiving metal chair, the handcuff on my right wrist clinking against the table ring they’ve locked it to. The bruises from Ethan’s fingers sit beneath the cold steel, faint but undeniable.
“I’ve already told you I’m waiting for my lawyer.”
Same answer I’ve given for two hours, but he keeps circling back, relentless and hungry for a crack he can exploit.
“And as I’ve told you, answering a few simple questions now could clear this whole thing up. Don’t you want to go home, Ms. Montgomery?”
Home.
The word hangs in the air, dangled in front of me with all the subtlety of bait on a hook.
I’m not biting.
“Home is where my lawyer is, and I'm not saying another word until he gets here.”
Detective Simmons sighs dramatically. “You know,” he says, leaning back in his chair, “your father is out there, worried sick about you.”
I almost laugh at that. Dad might be worried, but not for the reasons Simmons thinks.
“Is that supposed to make me talk? Bringing my father into this?”
Simmons shrugs, a casual gesture that doesn't match the predatory look in his eyes. “Just thought you should know. He and that biker boyfriend of yours have been waiting for hours. Strange bedfellows, those two.”
The mention of Brayden sends a jolt through me that I hope doesn't show on my face. I picture him pacing the waiting room, barely containing his rage, my father clutching his Bible nearby. The image would be almost comical if I weren't sitting here in handcuffs.
“Detective,” I say, meeting his gaze directly, “I understand you have a job to do. But so does my lawyer, and until he gets here, this conversation is over.”
Simmons leans forward, his chair creaking as he rests his elbows on the table. “You know what's interesting, Ms. Montgomery? Your ex-husband has a very different version of events. According to him, you've been harassing him for weeks. Calling, texting, showing up places where he'd be.” He flips through his notes. “Says you couldn't accept that he'd moved on.”
I keep my expression neutral, though my pulse quickens. Ethan's always been good at crafting narratives that paint him as the victim. It's what made him such an effective liar for all those years.
“No comment.”
“He claims you followed him into the men's room at Tony's—not the other way around—and when he rejected your advances, you became violent.” Simmons watches me closely, looking for any reaction. “Says your boyfriend then assaulted him when he tried to defend himself.”
My fingers twitch against the cold metal table. “That's quite a story. Does it come with dragons and unicorns too?”
Simmons doesn't appreciate my sarcasm. His friendly facade slips for a moment, revealing the frustration underneath. “Ms. Montgomery, I'm trying to help you here. Mayor Kincaid is pushing hard for charges.”
“That should be proof enough of my innocence.”
Simmons ignores my comment, flipping through his notes again. “What I find interesting is that no one at Tony's remembers seeing Mr. Kincaid follow you into any bathroom. In fact, the waitress says she saw you heading toward the restrooms right after Mr. Kincaid excused himself from his table.”
My stomach tightens. Of course Ethan would have thought this through, planned every detail to make me look guilty. He's had years of practice manipulating narratives to his advantage.
“Are we really still doing this, Detective? I've made it clear I'm not speaking without my lawyer.”
The door opens, and I nearly sag with relief when a man in an immaculate charcoal suit steps inside. He looks every inch the attorney who charges more per hour than most people make in a day. Thank God. It’s not Harold.
Because Harold—sweet, trembling, bake-sale-permit Harold—would’ve walked into this interrogation room, taken one look at the handcuffs, and immediately fainted onto the floor. Best-case scenario, he’d try to defend me using a church brochure and a prayer. Worst case, he’d accidentally confessfor meout of sheer nerves.
This man, though? He looks ready to dismantle the entire police department with nothing but a briefcase and a well-timed eyebrow raise.
“This interview is over,” he announces, placing his leather briefcase on the table with a decisive thud.