Page 86 of Understanding Fate

“Am I being charged with something?” I ask, more worried than before.

“No, ma’am. You’re the primary witness in another case. We just need your version of things,” he says politely.

“What other case?” I question, my eyes bouncing between the men seated before me.

“We aren’t at liberty to discuss that, but would you be willing to answer a few questions for us?”

“I’m not sure I should be answering questions,” I say reluctantly.

“Ms. DelaCourt, Brielle, can I call you Brielle?” he asks, prompting my nod before continuing. “We just want to get to the bottom of everything that happened the last time you were here. Can you tell us about that?” he inquires, pulling out a small notebook and a pen from his jacket.

Bri: I’m being questioned about Cain taking me. Should I ask for a lawyer or something?

Dante: Stall any way you can. Noah should be there any minute. I sent him as soon as I heard. You can ask, but they aren’t required to give you one. Normal laws don’t apply here.

“Umm, a little, I guess. I was in a hotel. I'm not sure what one; I don’t remember anything having a logo on it.” I say, pitching up my voice and giving intentionally vague and off-topic information.

“We are aware of your accommodations. Can you tell us about them after your arrival?” he pushes, holding a polite expression despite it not reaching his eyes.

I note that the other man has done nothing but stare at me. He hasn’t said a word.

“Oh, sorry, yes, well, once I was here, a man was stationed at my door. He didn’t speak to me or tell me his name, but he was outside the door, just guarding the hallway. I tried making faces at him, you know, like you do with the British Guards?” I paused, expecting a nod or agreement, but I got neither as Enforcer Jones’s eyebrows came together.

“Maybe that's not as common as I think it is, but anyway, he just stood there, not talking, looking like a statue in the hall. I’m surprised he didn’t attract more attention. You’d think other hotel guests would wonder what he was guarding, like maybesomeone famous. Being from Vegas, I know that happens all the time there. When I was seventeen, my roommate Liv and I snuck into the Bellagio on the Strip; you know that one. It’s the one with the huge fountain, anyway; she was sure that The Weeknd was staying there, and we rode in the elevator going floor to floor,”

“Ms. DelaCourt,” he interrupts, irritation filling his tone as he drops the attempt to be friendly by calling me my first name. “If you could focus on the question,” he finishes.

“Of course, sorry. When I’m nervous, I ramble; it's a bad habit I got from my mom,” I say, knowing that the LLC is already aware of who my dad is.

A fucking evil asshole, that’s who.

“So, about your question, I was just at the hotel. I didn’t have my phone or my luggage because they picked me up in the middle of the night while I was on a recruitment trip from the marketing firm in Boston. They specialize in sustainability within product disbursement, which is a focus of mine in school, so I was really hoping I would be able to make a good impression. I guess probably not anymore since I had to leave without a word. Well, maybe I can find a way to explain it to them. Come up with some reason. Obviously, not the real reason, you know, but like a sick relative or something? I can’t exactly explain that a supernatural governing body of werewolves took me in for questioning about a battle between packs, am I right?” I pause hoping one will speak up, but neither does.

My eyes scan back and forth between them, my expression as pleasant as I can make it.

“I did it again, didn’t I? Dang it. Okay. You asked about my time here. Well, I remember a doctor coming to see me. I mean, I assume he was a doctor? Now that I think about it, I realize I never really had him show me any credentials. Wow,how stupid! He could have been anyone off the street, and I let him stick needles in me and take my blood for who knows what! Do you know if he was a doctor? Like a real one?” I ask, feigning concern.

“Dr. Foret is a real doctor,” Jones says, his tone even, his eyes desperately trying not to roll.

“Are you sure? Because there are a lot of people who claim to be doctors but really aren’t, like Dr. Seuss, Dr. Zhivago, Dr. Dre, heck, I don’t even think Dr. Phil is a real doctor anymore!" I exclaim, causing Martin to sign and clench his teeth.

Ah, finally, here is some reaction from that guy.

“Ms. DelaCourt, he is a real doctor. Can we please continue, possibly without all of the theatrics?” Jones says, nearly gritting his teeth.

“Of course, I’m sorry. It’s just a lot to take in and everything, what with being kidnapped, nearly killed, having brain surgery, surviving only to be picked up and carted off again. It's just been a long couple of weeks, you know, and I’m not sure I’ve had the time to really process everything,” I start to tear up, using a technique I’d learned from Liv in middle school to get out of trouble with our male teachers.

“Sorry,” I sniff before continuing my charade. “ So it’s good to know he was a real doctor, at least because the last thing I need is another secret coming to light,” I say.

Jones looks uncomfortable now, and Alpha Martin seems irritated that he has to sit through this.

“It’s understandable that you would be stressed, ma’am. Can you tell us what happened after the DNA test?” he asks, urging me to do so.

“Of course, after the doctor left, it was a little while before another man showed up. This one came alone and sent the guard away,” I say, giving some accurate detail so that it seems less forced when I go on my next tangent.

“What was the man's name?” Jones asks pen at the ready.

“Alex? I think. He was mesmerizing like he walked right off the pages of a magazine. I’ve never met anyone with purple eyes before, and I’m not usually a fan of purple. Growing up the way I did, I was always more of a black-loving girl. I don’t think I would own a single thing that was brightly colored if it weren’t for Liv. She insists that colors keep people from thinking I’m a serial killer, which is crazy because, at least from what I’ve seen, most serial killers don’t look the part. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a serial killer who was goth or emo. They are always just the picture of normal, or at least that’s what everybody says when they find out,” I prattle on.

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