Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
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.
Even if it wasn’t him, someone laced that coke with enough fentanyl to kill. I’ll be damned if I rest until I know who did it. Whether they were after me or Tony, or it was a mistake, it doesn’t matter. They’re dead.
“Mr. Thompson.” A small voice to my right says my name and breaks my concentration. It takes every effort to raise my head and relax my body as if nothing’s wrong. As if I’m not envisioning beating in some unknown man’s face with my bare knuckles. I’m quick to get to my feet, eager to leave.
Each step smacks off the floor, the sound drowning out the steady ticking of the clock. My heart beats in rhythm to match my pace.
“Your belongings.” A weak smile forms on her thin lips as she hands me a ziplock plastic bag and review the contents one by one, going down the list in her hands.
It’s all standard procedure, I tell myself.
I shove my hands into my pockets and rock on my heels as I wait. Each second makes me more and more anxious to get out of here.
“And your keys,” she says flatly then finally meets my eyes again.
“Thank you,” I answer with a tight smile and grab the bag before she can change her mind. As I slip my black leather wallet into my back pocket, I wonder what James will say. Better yet, I wonder how I can get him to confess.
“Make sure you sign here.” I smile as I do what I’m supposed to.
Break his jaw.
“And here,” the woman adds, pointing to another line on the release forms.
Bash his knees in with a tire iron.
“You’re all set, Mr. Thompson.”
Put a gun to his head.
My lips tilt up as if I’m happy to be getting out of here. But my muscles are tightly wound and my stomach’s churning.
All because of one question: What if it wasn’t him?
No one can know about any of this shit. My heart skips a beat and I hesitate to walk out of the station. Kat.
My feet nearly stumble over each other at the thought of someone going after her. They wouldn’t. Not when she’s through with me. They can’t. No one better hurt her. No one touches my wife.
I force myself to move forward. I can’t go to the cops, not even to protect her. All they’ll do is go after me. I don’t have a shred of evidence other than a testimony that could lead them to convict me. I have nothing but my word. Inside these four walls, my word doesn’t mean shit. I’m well aware of that fact.
The sky’s gray as I glare through the glass doors, hating this place and what I’ve done. I have to tell her the truth and make sure she knows I’ll keep her safe and not to trust anyone; I shake my head. I’ll have to tell her I’m coming home first and with that thought, I take out my phone. Turning it on, I lean against the door waiting to see what I’m up against.
I bet she’s heard I’m locked up, but maybe there’s a small chance she hasn’t.
As the phone comes to life, a series of pings follows the messages popping up.
A couple from Pops, the first asking where I am and if Kat forgave me. The next asking me to call him when I get out of jail. A numbness creeps over my shoulders at the feeling of disappointment that runs through me. He’s too old to be dealing with my shit.
My body sags against the door, the chilly temps from the autumn night seeping through the glass.
I scroll through the messages asking all sorts of questions from people who don’t really give a shit about me, and vice versa. They don’t matter.
The one person who does matter, the only one I want to hear from and the only person I want to run to … hasn’t sent a single text.