Page 68 of Wasted

Spring shot Victoria a grim look, her brow furrowing. “I wish I could stay with you. I asked, but they wouldn’t let me.”

Victoria’s heart warmed at the gesture. “That’s very kind. Thank you.” She dug up a smile. “But I don’t think Torin would forgive me if I kept you in jail overnight. And I know Dad never would. I can already hear the lecture I’m going to get for dragging down the Weston name and reputation. I suppose this will make the news.” She shook her head as if she wasn’t concerned, though the thought of his reaction, how furious and disappointed he might be, churned her stomach with dread.

Spring cringed. “I’ll try to talk him down, if I can. This isn’t your fault. He should know that.”

“Thank you for saying that.” But Spring would be the last person to be able to smooth things over with their father. They still had their own issues to work through. “I’ll try to speak with him when I’m released. Hopefully, he’ll come around when he understands I’m being…” she glanced at the officer standing by the door and lowered her voice, “framed and targeted.” Framed by a criminal and targeted by a police detective. Things were not looking good.

“Time’s up.” The officer’s forceful tone nearly made Victoria flinch.

“Sorry. I guess I have to go.” Spring frowned and wheeled back around the corner of the cell. She gave Victoria one more lingering look.

It was her turn to leave Victoria behind in captivity. At least she wasn’t abandoning Victoria to life-threatening danger, as Victoria had done to Spring.

But although Victoria had doubts over her decision then, she had arguably done the right thing in following the shooter’s orders to keep him calm, letting him believe he was in control. And she had thereby been allowed to save a paralyzed boy.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Spring’s farewell drew Victoria away from the memory and her attempts at self-justification. But she would need to stay positive and optimistic to survive a night in this unnerving place.

“See you tomorrow.” Victoria watched her sister wheel out of the room, the officer trailing behind her.

The door shut with a slam that rang in her ears.

Victoria was literally imprisoned. And at least for tonight, there was no way out.

Cillian gripped the steering wheel like it was McCully’s neck as he drove his jeep to the Chicago Renaissance Art Museum.

Victoria was in jail. Right now. And it was only six fifteen. She was going to be there all night, at least according to McCully.

When Cillian had confronted the detective after hours of waiting at the station, trying to see Victoria, McCully had happily told him she couldn’t possibly get out until bail was set. Which wouldn’t be until tomorrow morning, at the earliest.

Cillian still couldn’t believe he’d threatened McCully with calling Victoria’s father. But it was all he’d been able to think of at the time. Dr. Henry Weston was good for one thing, at least—getting his way and pulling strings. Shouldn’t he have been able to get her out of jail right away?

The idea of Victoria—beautiful, innocent, elegant Victoria—spending the night in a jail full of criminals made his blood boil.

She’d better be in a private cell, at least. If anybody touched one hair on her head, they’d have to answer to him. Personally.

He yanked the wheel to turn into the parking lot he’d nearly missed.

He zoomed toward the front of the museum. He couldn’t just sit at his apartment while Victoria was rotting in jail.

He needed to do everything he could to get her out. And if her dad beat him to it, Cillian had to make sure she didn’t get arrested again.

McCully wouldn’t rest until he brought her to trial for murder. Or until she was convicted.

Not happening. Cillian needed to figure out who the real murderer was and find enough evidence to convince Lieutenant Willis, if not the bully detective. Since Victoria had told him about three suspects, Cillian knew where to start.

He would find out what kind of cars each of them drove, and one would likely be a match to the getaway car driven by the guy who’d ransacked Briscoe’s home.

The curator was the easiest one to check first, since he was likely at the museum.

Which was why Cillian had driven downtown in the hope of catching him before the museum closed at eight.

Cillian slowed his jeep as he drove behind the row of parked cars closest to the museum. He studied each closely, moving slowly.

There.

A silver Mercedes was parked next to the handicapped stalls near the entrance. A sign stood in front of it.

Cillian stopped behind the car and got out to check the sign.