Page 97 of Just My Luck

Abel only nodded.

In his truck, he followed behind the squad car, and I watched in horror as they drove away.

THIRTY-FOUR

ABEL

The interrogation roomof the Remington County Sheriff’s Office was cramped and cold. The air hung heavy with the acrid smell of stale coffee and lemon-scented cleaner. The harsh, fluorescent lighting cast a murky pallor over the worn-out linoleum floor, where I counted the scuff marks beneath the table. The cold bite of handcuffs against my wrists was the only distraction from the unforgiving metal chair.

After walking me to the interrogation room at the back of the police station, they’d deposited me into the chair and started asking questions. I offered a half-truth that Jared had been punched, and I allowed them to believe it was me who’d done it.

They determined that that made me a threat, and I was unceremoniously handcuffed and left while they figured out their next move.

I assumed making me wait was only part of their interrogation tactics.

The muted whir of a distant air conditioner provided a feeble attempt at comfort, but the oppressive atmosphere clung to the room like a heavy fog. My every breath seemed amplified in the small space, each inhale bringing with it the musky odor ofanxiety. The oppressive weight of the room pressed on me as I waited, handcuffed and vulnerable.

The look on Ben’s face as they walked me away from my home played on a loop in my mind. I shifted in the uncomfortable chair, an ache settling between my ribs.

Sloane didn’t deserve this. None of them do.

Shame coursed through me as the metal hinges of the door groaned and a detective in an ill-fitting, shit-colored suit walked in.

“Mr. King.” He nodded once and looked down at the file folder in his hands.

My jaw clenched. “Am I a suspect? Am I being charged?”

His eyebrows popped up. “A suspect?” His head tilted. “For which crime, exactly?”

Fuck.

Sloane’s plea to keep my mouth shut echoed through my mind. I had the sinking feeling that something bad had happened, and I was public enemy number one. Only, this time I hadn’t actually done anything, yet it didn’t seem to make any difference at all.

I gathered my breath. “I would like to speak with my lawyer.”

The detective chuffed. “I’m sure you would.”

My brows scrunched down as I raised my head to look at him. My stomach pitched as his gaze communicated that, to him, I was nothing more than a common criminal breathing his air and taking up his space.

The room’s cold beige walls seemed to close in on me, suffocating, as if they held secrets whispered between the peeling paint and the microscopic cracks. The one-way mirror mocked my every move, a silent spectator to the tension that electrified the room. The taste of dread clung to my senses like the damp chill that permeated the air.

I had fucked up by willingly walking into the station and running my mouth. Now I was no longer able to leave on my own accord.

The electric click of the door lock drew our attention as a second officer entered. She leaned in and whispered something to the detective as he stared at me. Annoyance flickered over his features, and his gaze swept me up and down.

“You’re sure?” he asked the officer. She nodded before silently exiting. The detective slapped the folder onto the table in frustration. “Well, Mr. King...” The detective rounded my seat, towering over me. He reached down, slipped his hand under my biceps and yanked upward. A pinch in my shoulder screamed as I stood, my arms still locked behind my back.

At my full height, I looked down at him over my shoulder. He shook his head and reached into his pocket to pull out a set of keys. “Looks like today is your lucky day.”

Without tenderness, he jostled my arm and yanked on my handcuffs to release me. Once I was freed, I rubbed my raw wrist with my other hand.

“You’re free to go.” He gestured toward the door, but paused. “For now.”

Unease rolled through me, but I was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He led me down the hall toward the precinct’s lobby.

My steps faltered when it was not Sloane standing by the reception desk, but rather my father.

Without a hair out of place, Russell King stood eerily still, his hands clasped in front of him.

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