Page 66 of The Villains We Make

“No. They can’t just come in here and take you!”

“Remove her,” Wells instructs the officer who takes hold of me. The instant he does, Silas’s arm shoots out, and he grabs the officer’s wrist and twists his arm around his back.

“Don’t you dare touch her. Don’t lay a fucking finger on her!”

The next part happens so quickly, it’s almost a blur. I stumble backward as all three officers storm into the house, grabbing Silas, who resists. The coat rack falls over and I watch when it takes all of them—and they’re not small men—to restrain Silas, pulling his arms behind his back and cuffing him.

“Get him in the car,” Wells says and steps out of the way as they haul Silas, who doesn’t make it easy, out of the house and down the front stairs to the waiting patrol cars.

I run out after them, the porch floor freezing beneath my bare feet.

“Silas!”

“Call Nigella,” Silas says, turning to catch my eye. “Tell her to get to the station. Hamish will be here in an hour. Do not leave this house without him, Ophelia.”

I run down onto the drive and all I can do is watch as the patrol car he’s in is driven away, the second one following as if they expect trouble.

Wells comes to stand beside me. I hug my arms to myself as the cars disappear from sight.

“We’ll be downtown.” He hands me a card. “This is the address, but I suggest you stay home. It’ll be more comfortable for you while we interrogate Mr. Cruz.”

I snatch the card from his hand. He lets his gaze move over me and I pull the collar of the shirt closer, wondering how much of me he can see through the white shirt.

“Something’s burning,” he says, gesturing into the house.

I turn, smell what I guess is burnt bacon. Without bothering to say goodbye, I hurry back into the house and slam the door shut, going straight to the kitchen to turn off the stove. The coffee machine percolates, spitting out the last of the coffee, and I see where Silas had set two plates out. Toast is already buttered on each, and one of the mugs already has cream in it.

What the hell just happened? Sullivan Fox is dead? And they think Silas killed him?

I look down at the card, then move back into the hallway to right the toppled coat rack. From inside the pocket of my coat, I take out my phone and scroll to Nigella’s number.

“This is Nigella,” she says, answering on the third ring.

“Nigella. It’s Ophelia.”

“Ophelia. It’s early. Has something happened?”

“They took Silas. The police…” I can’t finish. Why is this happening again? How?

“What? Why?”

“They just came to the house and took him away in handcuffs.” I hear how panicked I sound. “Sullivan Fox is dead.” To say the words, to hear them, makes me shiver with sudden cold.

He’s dead.

“Oh, fuck. And Silas was there.”

“You knew?”

“Where did they take him?” she asks instead of answering my question.

I tell her the address. “I’ll meet you there.”

“No. Just stay put. There won’t be anything you can do for him, Ophelia.”

“Can they just take him like that? I mean, they handcuffed him.”

“He has a history. And if he put up any kind of resistance, which I’m assuming he did…”

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