Page 25 of Tortured Eyes
“Not the way you think. Or recently,” he mutters. Logan’s eyes scour at me as if I brought up something particularly troubling.
“How?”
“Keep walking and keep that mouth closed. Unless you want me to close you down again.”
I cooperate and pick up the pace, moving around and around, higher and higher until I feel like we must have ascended the tallest building in Chicago.
“This one.” Logan points to the door with a thirteen on the sign beside it.
“I didn’t think most buildings had a thirteenth floor?” I wonder aloud.
“Unlucky for you.” He closes the gap between us and presses his thumb to the pad next to the level sign, opening the door. Using the muzzle of the gun again, he nudges me forward into a lit entryway. An elevator door to one end and another door at the other. He pushes me towards the door using his hand this time. Another fingerprint entry and we’re inside an open-plan living space.
My eyes evaluate the room, looking for anything that can be used as a weapon, ways to escape, but Logan’s shoving me now, forcing me forward as if he’s reached the end of his patience.
Off to one side are two doors. We go through the one on the right and into a bedroom. Before the lights are even on, I can make out the bed in the centre of the room on the far wall.
The bang of the door shutting us in spikes my adrenalin. I walk across the room before turning back to face Logan. Through the dark I can see his shadow, guarding the door. I head to the window, but there’s a shutter covering it, which doesn’t budge when I try to open it. The room, on initial view, is completely secure.
The panic that I’d managed to stave off in the hallway barges its way into my mind, threatening to fuel my body with the fight or flight reflex that I know isn’t going to do jack shit to help right now.
Logan wants something. I just need to find out what, bide my time and be smart. Stay sharp. I take a seat on the bed and wait. There’s no other play for me right now. He holds all the cards. At least for now.
* * *
My gut twists in a regular roll of worry and fear as I wait. Logan has been a quiet sentry, guarding the exit for the last few minutes, but the weight of the atmosphere makes every second last a minute. I want to break. I want to scream at him, threaten him and take him on, but I know that my chances in that scenario are slim to none. So, I wait some more.
Finally, when I think I won’t be able to take much more, the sound of a phone vibrating shatters the silence.
Logan takes the call but doesn’t speak straight away. His phone is poised at his ear, but his face remains in shadow.
“Good. Do it.” His words are monotone, sharing nothing of his current state of mind. He ends the call before pressing a few more buttons on the screen. The low glow from the screen illuminates his face for a second, but the lighting only makes him look more formidable. Deeper set eyes, more shadow, more menace.
“Father?” A pause and my ears burn with anticipation at what will be said next. I keep still, not wanting to disturb what might come next.
“Listen to me. There’s a situation.” Each time Logan pauses, I picture Nate’s body, the blood soaking his chest. “Nate was there. He wasn’t meant to be-”
As much as I need to be the police officer I am, listening to this conversation is hard. Logan’s waiting to tell his father that his uncle, Quinn’s brother, is dead. Even I know that they were supposed to be close.
“You need to let me talk without fucking interrupting me.” And yet he goes quiet again, his eyes closing as if he's trying to listen to his father on the other end and hold his temper. "Stop. He wasn't meant to be... He’s… dead.”
It’s as if all the air has been sucked from the room. I wait for the next few words as if they might help give me some clue as to what might happen next, but the words don’t come. Maybe they’re both in shock, but there are no voices to fill the pressure growing in the room.
“I have it. I’m looking after him. No, later.”
I try and guess what they mean, and then wonder what they’ve done with the body? And not only Nate’s but the rest of the men who were killed. Will this be yet another crime that goes unnoticed and unreported? Will this be the evidence I need? Ironic that it might be my own murder and death that I need to put the pieces of my dad’s case together.
“Of course, I fucking know. What do you take me for? Be goddamned careful because I can still crush whatever power your son has left in this city." A second or two of silence comes again, a heavy huff sounding. "Nate was always the good one. The better one of us all and I fucking wish it was you instead of him. Don’t ever challenge me again.”
Logan disconnects the call and throws the phone across the room, anger harsh and heavy in his features. “You.” He storms from his spot towards me and climbs over me. I scurry back onto the bed to move out of his way, but his hands tear at my skin, grabbing my wrists to pull them above my head.
“Fuck, you’re going to pay for this.” Spit flies from his lips as he threatens me.
“Logan, think about this. I’m a detective. You can’t keep me here. You can’t kill me. People will be looking for me and they will ask questions.”
"I don't care a fuck who'll be looking for you.” His breath is warm against my cheek, and his weight pushes me deeper into the mattress. The burning at my wrists grows, but at least he hasn’t put a bullet in my head. “I don’t give a damn if all the fucking cops in the Chicago PD come looking for you.” He stills, his grip bruising until he shoves and eventually releases me to back away. The jacket gets tossed from his back, his neck cracking out, and he reaches for his phone again. "You're mine as long as I say. And no one will find what's left of you until I'm ready. Alive or dead."
