Page 17 of Tortured Hearts
“But I?—”
“Becca,” he drawls, glaring at me while clenching his hand into a fist. “I can’t break protocol, even when threatened with extortion.”
Ouch. When he says it like that, itdoessound kind of shitty.
Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I give him a swift nod, envisioning all the ways this could play out as the door closes behind him. None of them include muffled shouting and a loud crash seconds before the door flies open, and my father comes barreling out, cheeks flushed.
“Have you lost your goddamn mind?”
However, my attention isn’t on him. It’s on the man sitting at the other side of the table. The moment we lock eyes, his bored, blasé expression turns to stone.
“Becca?” Gianni hits his feet, halfway clearing the table before two men all but clothesline him back into his seat.
I rush forward only to collide with my father’s chest, his hands gripping my arms. I jerk and twist, but it’s like fighting a dozen rusted seat belts. “Let me go,” I scream.
“Get your fucking hands off her!” Gianni roarsfrom inside the room.
My father glares at his friend, his teeth clenched. “Don’t just stand there. Shut the damn door, and get out of my sight.”
Shooting me a dirty look, Hooper slips in behind him and closes the interrogation room door before quickly disappearing around the corner. With my access to Gianni cut off, I slump in my father’s grip.
Great. Now what?
Releasing his hold, my father steps back and lets out an exasperated sigh while pinching the bridge of his nose. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Didn’t the captain tell you? I have information pertaining to your witch hunt.” I flash a plastic smile. “I meancase.”
“Don’t test me, Becca. I’m not in the mood.”
“You’renot in the mood?” I throw my head back and laugh. “Well, I’m sorry your attempt at playing both sides hit a snag, Dad. Try nearly being charbroiled to a crisp. That’ll put a kink in your day.”
The anger fades from his eyes. “Why are you out of the hospital?” He scans the white cotton dress and sandals Meredith pulled from the back of her closet. “And why are you dressed like that?”
I stifle the urge to cringe. Either my receptionist is seasonally clueless or a colossal smartass. “Not important,” I say, hoping he lets it go.
“Not important?” he repeats. “You said it yourself—you were ‘nearly charbroiled’. Jesus, Becca, you’re a psychiatrist. Why in God’s name would you leave the hospital, knowing what something that traumatic can do to a person?”
“Because I’m not a narcissistic asshole who always puts myself first. You should try it sometime.”
Part of me feels bad for the vitriol I’m spewing. The old me would never speak so callously. She whisperedit safely behind a wall of fortified glass, where she could be the smart, systematic robot everyone wanted.
Because there’s nothing oppressive men fear more than a woman with nothing to lose.
My insult washes over him, hardening his expression. “This isn’t the time or place for this conversation.”
“You’re right,” I say flatly. “So why don’t you find some non-corrupt officers so I can give my statement?”
“I can take whatever statement you feel you need to give.”
“So it can just end up in a paper shredder the moment I walk out the door? No thanks. I prefer to give it to the men without my mother’s blood on their hands.”
He flinches, and for a moment, I regret the low blow. Then, I think of Gianni, most likely being interrogated without an attorney, and every ounce of remorse evaporates. We stand there in silence, each waiting for the other to fold, when he lets out a resigned sigh, his clenched jaw relaxing. “I’ll let you give a statement on one condition…”
I don’t ask. I simply raise my eyebrows and wait.
“You let me take you back to the hospital, afterward.”
“I’ve been discharged,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.
