Page 64 of Savage Daddies

And last but not least…

The noose knotted around Paul’s neck.

Fuck. He’s been there for some time too. Overnight, by the looks of things. His pallid skin blotches this purple-blue color, and it takes all the life out of his face. His eyes are stuck open, holding pain from the moment it happened. His blue lips part from the strain, and the skin around the rope is torn, dried blood coloring the noose a sort of reddish-brown hue. There’s the smell, of course. Lots of things stink, but nothing stops you in your tracks quite like the rancid aroma of human flesh rotting in the morning sun.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

Then a cuff locks around my wrist.

I’m tugged backward.

Cops intercept Wrangler and Bullwhip too. None of us fight. We just stare up at the body, knowing our investigation has reached a dead end.

* * *

A ceiling fanwhirls above us in the dark room, generating dry air.

My arms are peppered in goose bumps, so I run a hand over them to keep warm. The cold doesn’t affect me, but something about being under arrest in a police station turns my internal body temperature icy cold.

I sit sandwiched between Bullwhip and Wrangler in a metal chair that has zero cushioning. Already, it digs into my ass. We’ve only been here five minutes.

I tap my shoe against the concrete ground to induce some life back into it.

“Stop that,” hisses Bullwhip.

“I have no feeling in my ass.”

It’s the first time we’ve been reunited since the arrest. All of us were ferried away in different cop cars.

“You didn’t have to fuckin’ punch them, Bully,” says Wrangler. The country accent has a richer twang to it in this echoey interrogation room.

“You’re welcome,” he huffs. “If it wasn’t for me stalling them, we wouldn’t have seen anything. Besides”—Bullwhip turns to me—“you started it by barging in unannounced. A heads-up would’ve been nice.”

“There wasn’t time.”

For Zoe, time doesn’t exist.

Wrangler slouches in his chair. “Looks like we’re back at square one now.”

“I know.” I scratch my head. It hurts from the turn of events. “What are?—?”

The iron door cracks open and two FBI agents walk in.

I hope for the club’s sake Bully didn’t punch themtoohard.

Saying nothing, they each take a seat opposite us at the table. Their rolled sleeves expose hairy arms, but ours are hairier. They’re similar ages to us, and both wear unamused expressions on their chubby faces. We might’ve been fine without Bullwhip’s assistance. They would’ve slowed themselves down carrying all of that weight.

One two many Wendy’s deliveries.

“Do you know why you’re here?” one asks.

“Why did Paul commit suicide?” Wrangler counters.

“We ask the questions, thank you, not the other way around,” says baldie on the right.

Charming.

“Answer my colleague’s question. Do you know what you’re doing here today?” says the left guy with the chin dimple.

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