Page 4 of Jax
It carried.
My blood went cold. “Yes?” I said, the word tight in my throat, my fingers clutching the strap of my purse so tightly I felt the skin pinch.
“My name is Detective Quinn Mercado. I need you to come with me,” he said, already taking a step forward. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just close enough to feel like a corner being built around me.
I blinked, confused and suddenly furious with myself for not planning for this. “What’s going on? Did something happen?”
“Ma’am, it is of the utmost importance that you come with me right now. We’ll talk at the station.”
My stomach dropped through the floor. My brain scrambled, calculating options—run, scream, lie, faint, comply—but my feet had already turned toward him, traitorous and slow, moving me in his direction like the decision had been made without me.
“Am I in trouble?” I asked, too late and too softly.
“We’ll talk in the car.”
His tone didn’t shift, but something about it landed wrong. Not dangerous, just off. Practiced. Like he was reading from a script.
I followed him back out into the lobby and out the front door to his waiting vehicle, because there was no other option. Because if I hesitated, I didn’t know who might step in next. Because whatever game this was, I wasn’t the one dealing.
The car door closed with a soft thunk—muted, final, too quiet for the voices still howling in my skull. I didn’t know what I’d expected. Sirens. Flashing lights. A badge, barked orders, the bite of cold metal. But there was none of that. Just an engine humming to life, a turn of the wheel, the rhythmic tick of ablinker as Detective Mercado merged into traffic like we were two strangers running errands on a weekday morning.
He didn’t speak for a few long minutes. Neither did I.
The silence wasn’t just awkward. It was calculated. Dense. Like a breath held just a moment too long. A test I hadn’t studied for, hadn’t even known I was taking.
I kept my spine straight, hands locked in my lap, nails biting crescents into my palms. My gaze drifted to the window, tracking every street sign, every intersection, every coffee shop and bus stop like a lifeline. I needed something to anchor to, something real, untouched by blood or fear or strangers who didn’t ask permission.
My body hadn’t stopped bracing since I sat down. The seatbelt dug into my shoulder, bruises flaring to life with every bump. My throat clenched around a panic I hadn’t earned the right to release. My tongue felt dry, heavy. I waited for him to speak, for something to break the tension, but he drove as if this was routine. Calm. Controlled. Unbothered.
At the next red light, without looking at me, he spoke.
“I’m sorry for the formality. Back in the courthouse.”
His voice was steady, like a man commenting on the weather. Still, the words landed like a slap. I turned my head toward him slowly, uncertain whether the spike in my chest was fear or fury. “What?”
“I needed it to look like you were being brought in when I marched you through the lobby,” he said, keeping his gaze on the road. “In case someone was watching.”
My stomach twisted. I blinked once, hard, then looked back out the window. “You think someone was?”
His left hand tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “I can’t be sure, if I’m being completely honest. But you deserve the truth, so here is what Idoknow. The people who took you are part of a crime organization called the Dom Krovi. They’vebeen operating quietly in Kansas City for years, but recently they have begun to increase their activity.”
He paused and glanced at me to make sure I was following before he continued. “They went to the trouble of setting up a legitimate, albeit coerced, transfer of your property to a shell company, and probably gave you detailed instructions as to what they expected. At least, that’s the theory I’m working with. I’ll let you tell me how accurate I am. Either way, they’re not the kind of people who leave things to chance.”
I let the weight of that settle in my chest like concrete. So this wasn’t over. It was just monitored. Measured.
“So… what does that mean?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even. “Am I under arrest?”
“No,” he said after a pause.
“Then what am I?”
His fingers tapped once on the steering wheel, then stilled. “Right now? You’re the thread that just might help us unravel a very careful web.”
I didn’t answer. Leaned back against the seat, but my spine never touched leather. Couldn’t relax. Not even close.
“You’re not in trouble, as such. Not with the police, anyway,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.
I scoffed—dry, brittle. “You think that’s what I’m afraid of?”
