Page 123 of Babalon

When his hands flex, I know I have him. That view pulls a smile across my face that feels like it spreads from ear to ear. Middle child syndrome, poor thing.

“That your MO? Harass people who have mommy issues? What about Nadia? Her mother has been out of the picture for the majority of her life, yet here you were, sitting off to the side with your thumbs stuck up your ass, doing nothing while she was being assaulted.”

“Self-incrimination, Detective.”

“Fine, tell me what you do know about her?”

“Only child, absent mother, terrible father, works in prison, likes to bully people.”

“That all?”

“Sums it up.”

“Lucien, where’s Kace?”

“Who?”

He groans and leans forward; I can see the irritation flaring in the expressions he tries so hard to keep tamped down. Looks like he used to watch daddy beat on his mom, hard to kick those bad parental habits. I would know. Daddy probably did the same thing, acted exasperated. Body fighting the energy that coursed through it, itching to punish something.

“What do you know about Governor Barclay’s and his daughter?”

“He is in politics and she is dead.”

“Right, do you know who killed her?”

“No clue.”

The Lord is going to punish me seven ways to Sunday for all the lies falling out of my mouth. If he shows face again, that is. I’m usually stoic and unimpressed with interrogations, but toying with Whitlock is a game of reputation. Who will break first? He asks, I deflect and poke the bear. He reacts and asks another question. Merry-go-round.

“Did you kill Kace?”

“Trick question, Detective, try again.”

“Is Kace alive?”

I shrug.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Of course it is.”

Whitlock shoves away from his chair and rounds the table, leaning on one leg as he sits on the table's edge. The fabric of hisslacks stretches over his form. I follow his movement, keeping my gaze on him when he approaches.

I guess we are switching over to bad-cop now, my favorite.

“Where’s Patton?”

“Don’t know.”

The man is quick, I give him that. He pulled his right arm back and swings, clocking me in the jaw which throws my head the opposite direction. Laughter bubbles up from the depths of me when I look back around at the not so calm and collected man.

“Nadia said you killed him and poured his blood in a tub to wallow around in like swine.”

“I’d never do such a thing; pigs are filthy animals.”

“Then what would you do?”

“Anything but that.”

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