Page 64 of Wicked Fury

“Save it for the judge,” he snaps back, his tone as bitter as week-old coffee.

“Where is she?” The question comes out sharper than I intend, edged with the fear that’s starting to sink its teeth in.

“Well, why would we tell you something like that?” He chuckles, turning back to face the front, leaving me with the view of his smug reflection in the window.

“Better hope your daddy’s got deep pockets, Blackwood,” the cop taunts as the car pulls away, leaving behind the echo of the crowd and the ghost of freedom.

“Deep enough to bury you,” I shoot back, smirking despite the dire situation.

I lean into the hard plastic seat, the scent of sharp cleaner and body odor assaulting my nose. I never thought I’d end up here, not with the way dad throws the Blackwood name around. The dingy linoleum in here is going to cause me to break out.

“Your call, Blackwood. Make it quick,” the desk sergeant grunts, sliding the phone across the cold steel counter.

“Thanks, Paul,” I sneer, grabbing the receiver. My fingers are trembling—not from fear, but from fury as I dial one of my brothers. “Graham, tell me she’s there.”

“Lincoln?” Graham’s voice crackles through the line, all business, no comfort. “Where the hell are you?”

“Police station. They’re pinning some fucked up charges on me.” My words rush out like bullets. “Dad’s on this?”

“Yeah, he’s on it. I’m with him right now. You’ll be out soon.”

“Make sure Iris is safe, Graham,” I say, urgency sharpening my voice like a blade.

“Got it. Just as soon as I find her. Just hang tight,” Graham replies before the line goes dead.

The line goes dead before I can argue, before I can demand more answers. The weight of the handset in my hand is suddenly unbearable, and I slam it back onto its cradle. Dads on it. As if those three words should serve as a salve to the burning worry for Iris eating me from the inside out. She’s fucking who knows where, and I’m shackled to this godforsaken place. Why the fuck didn’t she go with them when she found them?

“Let’s go, daddy’s little twin,” a cop smirks as he manhandles me into the hallway, the cuffs he just put back on biting into my wrists. I don’t resist; my body moves on autopilot.

The interrogation room is a cliche come to life; dimly lit, the smell of stale coffee and sweat heavy in the air. Two officers sit across from me, their expressions a study in contrast. Good cop wears a sympathetic smile like a bad disguise, while bad cop has his sneer screwed on tight.

“Welcome, Mr. Blackwood,” says one cop, all smiles and sympathy. “We just want to clear things up.” His partner looms in the corner, eyes like daggers, eager to carve me up with accusations.

“Clear away,” I challenge, dropping into the chair they gesture to. It’s a hard, unyielding thing—much like their questions.

“Nicole Sullivan,” bad cop hurls the name at me like a grenade. “You know her?”

“Should I?” My heart hammers against my ribs. Nicole? Why does that name scratch at the back of my memory?

“Rape and assault, Lincoln. That’s what she’s claiming.” Bad cop leans in, eyes gleaming with the thrill of the hunt.

“Never touched her.” The denial comes fast and fierce, a reflex. But Nicole... a flicker of recognition sparks in the recesses of my mind, quickly smothered by confusion.

“Where were you Thursday night?” Smiley asks, pen poised over his notepad.

“Thursday?” I feign thoughtfulness. “Busy not raping or assaulting anyone. Can say the same for every Thursday, but you already know that.”

“Cut the crap, Lincoln,” the annoyed one snaps. “We’ve got a statement from Nicole. Says you were pretty rough.”

“Nicole?” I let out a scoff. The name is a bad taste on my tongue. “I still don’t know who the fuck you are talking about. Whoever is trying to fuck with me is more twisted than a corkscrew in a pretzel factory.”

“Watch your mouth, Blackwood,” the bad cop growls. I notice his little tacky ten cent badge says Jenson on it.

“Or what? You’ll wash it out with soap?” I shoot back with a smirk.

“Enough,” Smiley interjects, trying to smooth the tension. “Nicole Sullivan, senior at St. Charles and a Sports Med intern for the football team. Did you have any disagreements with her? Any reason she might target you?” Shit, as soon as he says that it all comes back to me. I knew this bitch had crazy eyes and was fucking locked in on me too goddamn much.

“Besides the fact she’s certifiable?” I retort, leaning back. “Look, esteemed officers of Sunshine Donuts, you’ve got the wrong guy. If she’s pointing fingers, it’s because she’s playing a game. And I’m not about to lose it all because some jersey chaser couldn’t get my attention.”

---