Page 100 of Cruel Hearts

Now I’ll never have the chance to pay her back.

I stare at the photographers, the reporters shouting questions I can’t answer.

A detective approaches me, briefly flashing his badge, and putting a hand to my shoulder, he urges me back inside the ER and asks the receptionist if there’s a quiet place to sit.

She’s in the middle of answering the phone and only points down a dimly lit corridor.

The detective’s tired, old. He has kind eyes, but I can’t trust him. I don’t know who Ash has on his payroll.

“What happened tonight, Mr. Maddox?” he asks, shifting on the plastic chair and pulling a small spiral notepad and pen out of his jacket pocket.

“We were fighting.” She looked beautiful. Tired, sore, but she’d looked so beautiful.

“Then what?”

He doesn’t write anything down, just sits next to me.

Listens.

“We were on the sidewalk. Some asshole wanted my wallet. I thought he was kidding.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“Not really. About my height. Skinny. Dressed in black. Baseball cap on his head. Downtown was busy, you know?”

“Yeah. Lots going on.”

“Yeah.”

“This guy, did he seem like a druggie? Twitchy?”

I shrug. “Maybe. It’s all a blur.”

It doesn’t matter what I tell the cops. They won’t find Paulo. Mel’s brother is good at his job. I wonder if Mel is in on it, if she’s ever been on my side, and how much Ash is paying her to turn on me.

“We’ll see what we can find,” the detective says, running a hand over his face. “This fucking gang stuff. Could’ve been one of those little pricks, huh? We’ll do what we can, but it doesn’t look promising. He’s long gone. She got a family? Next of kin?”

Numbly, I shake my head. “No one.” I’d been her only family. Me and Zarah.

“Okay. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“We weren’t together.” Playing. Still playing.

He nods. “Try not to think about it. And next time, just give ’em your wallet or else it will be you.”

I sit on the plastic chair, lost in the past, lost in memories, and I hurt too badly to cry.

Time slips by. God, I don’t know how much. A minute? Ten? Hours? I finally heave out of the chair and stagger to my feet.

Max is gone, the paparazzi scattered.

Douglas is waiting in the parking lot, the gleaming town car looking ridiculous among the beat-up sedans and family vehicles. The evening’s humidity hasn’t let up, and he stands outside in the heat, sweat dripping down his temples, leaning against the vehicle. He didn’t know Stella well—she didn’t use him as a driver very often—but what he knew of her, he loved.

She did that to people.

Silently, he drives in the direction of the Crowne. He should be bringing me to the penthouse. I should be pretending everything is normal, that this isn’t affecting me at all. I would rather do that. I don’t want to go to the hotel, but I have to tell Quinn, Denton, and my sister that Paulo, a man I let under our roof, killed Stella in cold blood.

Now I know how my father’s attorney felt when he had to tell Zarah and me our parents were dead.

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