Page 43 of Chaos & Corruption

I don’t know what his angle is or how long he plans to continue this shit? But I’ve got nothing more to say and while I should probably feel some sense of relief that Webber isn’t dead, I don’t. If he didn’t fucking overdose, then I wouldn’t be stuck here, fighting the urge to flip the table separating me and the detective questioning me.

I’d know Victoria’s fate.

Grinding my molars, I crack my knuckles and hiss, “I told you everything I know.”

Several fucking times.

“The script hasn’t flipped and it’s not going to because I’m telling the fucking truth.”

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Well, something doesn’t add up,” he volleys. I don’t know how the fuck he can remain so calm and appear so undeterred. Aside from the ten-minute break he took to get himself a coffee and reconvene with his partner, he’s been in this room, asking the same fucking questions over and over.

I do not envy him.

“And that’s my fault? Look, I’ll say it again. I was in my room, minding my own business, when Robinson knocked on my door. I followed him across the hall and found Webber unconscious with the needle in his arm. I checked to see if he was breathing and told Robinson to call 9-1-1.”

He clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and uncrosses his arms, gripping the edge of the metal table as he narrows his eyes.

“Why didn’t you call 9-1-1 yourself?”

“I told you the reason for that too,” I snap.

“Right,” he murmurs. “The girlfriend.” He cocks his head to the side. “You got a text from an unknown number containing a picture of your girlfriend who seeming looked as though she was in distress the same exact time your friend is unresponsive. That’s very coincidental, don’t you think?”

“Actually, I told you that the text came from her phone number. So someone took a picture of her lying there and sent it to me. Is it weird that the text came through the same time Webber was overdosing? I don’t know you’re the fucking detective, not me. But I think it’s ridiculous that you’re holding me here, knowing that my girlfriend is in danger.”

He clears his throat.

“You made a phone call.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Actually, you didn’t let me make a call.”

“Before we brought you in,” he clarifies as he opens the folder he brought into the room when he returned from fetching his coffee. It’s the first time he’s looked at it and as he flips through it an unwelcoming sense of dread fills my gut.

Licking my lips, I remain calm. This whole fucking game of cat and mouse is getting old and it’s getting old real fast.

“That’s right. I called Victoria’s uncle. I knew I couldn’t get to her on time.”

He lifts his gaze from the folder.

“But your friend wasn’t breathing.”

I want to shoutfuck my friend. The guy is a selfish asshole who doesn’t think of anyone but himself. However, I manage to keep my anger in check.

“And for all I knew neither was my fucking girlfriend,” I growl.

I want to demand a lawyer or at least that fucking phone call all perps are promised in every crime show on television, but before I can get the words out the detective closes the folder and diverts his eyes to the door. That’s when I hear the muffled sounds of what appears to be two men. I strain my ears to make out what they’re saying.

You can’t go in there.

Watch me.

A second later the door swings open and a man dressed in a three-piece suit enters the room, followed by another a uniformed policeman and another detective.

“Who the hell are you and how did you get in here?” The detective across from me barks.

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