Page 98 of Forever We Fall

Her head tilts. She places her elbows on the desk and leans closer. “Did you ever act upon it?”

“No,” I say easily, nonchalantly, as though it’s the truth. I don’t add anything to it or take anything away.

“Did your uncle ever hit you?”

“No,” I lie. It tastes like ash in my mouth, but I don’t make a face. “He shoved me around once or twice, though.”

“Once or twice?” she demands.

“Twice,” I huff.

“How did that make you feel?” Her arms fold over one another on the desk.

“Like I wanted to resurrect my family and live with them as zombies.” I straighten in my seat as though I’m finally taking her questions seriously.

Her gaze narrows. “Did he ever touch you inappropriately?”

“He tried.” I lift my chin.

“And?” she leads.

“I told him if he put his hands on me at all, I’d knock his teeth out of his head.” It’s a total fabrication. The first time he put his hands on me, I was on the ground unable to breathe, much less talk shit that I didn’t have the mass or spine to back up. He sucker-punched me straight in the gut without so much as a cross word of warning.

Guess I can thank him for that. I have both now. Mass and backbone. And a big fucking heap of skepticism.

“How did he take that?” Dean holds perfectly still.

“He yelled. Said I was overreacting. That he hadn’t been trying to do anything when he grabbed my ass.” I show my teeth. “Honestly, I don’t know why you guys are wasting your time looking for the piece of shit.”

“He has charges to face,” Wentzel practically growls.

“Hush,” Dean commands.

I split a look between them. “What charges?”

“That’s not your concern.” Detective Inspector Dean sits back and flips open the file.

My head shakes, and my mouth forms a grimace. “I’d say it is since I have to live with the man whenever you find him.”

“You’ll never have to live with him again,” Wentzel reassures.

“Wentzel, close your mouth,” Dean hisses.

He clears his throat, nods, and shifts in his seat. As though a new position will make him quit blurting.

Maybe the guy really is a softy. It explains why my questioning the first go-round was nothing really. Though, I answered similar questions with the same answers as today. These are somehow more invasive. It’s Dean. She’s whip-smart and hard-nosed.

“If your uncle doesn’t show up in the next two months and pay his taxes, the property will be forfeit.” She flips through the pages in front of her.

This segment of the interview is new territory. The things they didn’t discuss with me last time.

“Okay.” I fiddle with the end of my sleeve while maintaining eye contact, knowing that if I remain too still, too focused, she’ll pick up on it.

She lifts a piece of paper and hands it over. It’s a bank statement with my uncle’s cursed name at the top. As I flip through the pages, I can see the meager balance two years ago, the influx of funds after my parents died, and the rapid fall of that amount. It ends at a balance lower than he started. “Two hundred seventy-eight pounds.”

I have stashed four times that amount in my dorm. It takes effort to hide my smile, which shouldn’t be. I hand the document back.

The man squandered my family’s money. My inheritance. I should be raging. But the money wasn’t mine. It was my parents’, meant for a life they no longer have.

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