“Yeah. Yeah, she is,” I say, looking back to the entrance of the station, wishing like hell I could hear and see what’s going on inside.
Twenty-Three
Magnolia
Ihate everything about cop shops. From their ugly paint to the industrial flooring to the smell of burned coffee, judgmental stares, and injustice. However, cops are only part of a broken fucking system not doing a good enough job protecting the people who need it most.
I’m perched on an uncomfortable plastic chair inside an interrogation room with Barton Fields from Mount’s legal team beside me. He was in the car waiting when I climbed in the Maybach outside of the family entrance to Mount’s hidden kingdom. He introduced himself with a no-nonsense handshake and proceeded to tell me exactly how this appointment would go.
Except, the meeting hasn’t even started.
I check the time on my phone again. “It’s quarter after twelve. Is he fucking with me?”
Fields looks at the mirror on the wall opposite from where we’re sitting. “No. He’s making sure to waste your time because you didn’t ask how high when he said jump.” From the way Fields says it, I can tell he assumes someone is watching from the other side of the one-way glass. “But if they keep us waiting five minutes longer, we’re leaving.”
Fields’s assumption must be right, because at 12:19, the door to the interview room opens and Cavender struts in.
“So sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Maison.” He comes toward the table and holds out his hand to Fields first, which pisses me off. “Detective John Cavender. Who are you?”
“Ms. Maison’s counsel, Barton Fields. We’ll be keeping this meeting brief, as Ms. Maison doesn’t have any information regarding the homicide you told her about on the telephone this morning.”
Cavender’s gaze swings to me, and he offers me his calloused palm. I shake the extended hand, even though I don’t really want to.
“Is that right, Ms. Maison? You don’t know anything about Desiree Harding’s untimely death? Or should I say her gruesome murder in your brothel?”
Hearing him even say her name chokes me up instantly, and Fields thankfully jumps in.
“If you could give her a moment, Detective, we’d appreciate it. This news is understandably difficult for Ms. Maison to hear so abruptly. Some compassion would go a long way.”
Oh, this attorney isn’t here to play, and I’m glad he’s by my side.
“Fine. Take a minute. Would you like a bottle of water? A coffee?”
“Water, please,” I choke out. This time, the tears burning in the back of my eyes are coming forward. I attempt to blink them back as Cavender rises to go to the door.
He opens it and barks, “Water,” at someone outside before closing it again.
When Fields offers me a folded tissue, I take it and dab at my eyes. “Thank you.”
“You knew Ms. Harding well then, I take it?” Cavender asks, and I can feel the pressure of his intense gaze assessing me. Judging me. Likely condemning me.
I blot at the tears I don’t want falling in front of him. Regardless of what he thinks, this is no fucking act. Grief for what happened to Desiree rips me to shreds inside. Becausethis is all my fault.
No. I can’t think about that right now. It won’t help anything. Instead, I dry my eyes and look Cavender directly in his.
“Yes, I knew her. For years. She bought the house from me. She was still paying on the bond for deed.”
“When was the last time you were at the house?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. It’s been at least a month or more.”
He scribbles a note on his tiny steno pad. “How long has it been since you’ve seen Ms. Harding?”
Time has nearly lost all order in my head. The last week is all one big blur. “A few days ago.”
He clicks his fucking pen. In-out. In-out. In-out. “Where?”
I pause for a second before answering, but I decide I have nothing to lose by telling the truth. “At a private club.”