Page 82 of Tortured Eyes
“Can I help you?” a woman’s voice answers after a few moments.
“I’m here to see Mr Cane. It’s Detective McCarthy.”
“Please show your ID to the video screen.”
I do as instructed, and a moment later, the black gates part and swing open.
Step one down.
As I drive around the gravel track, I can’t help but stare at the house that comes into view. Stately manor is more apt, complete with steps up to the front door. The trappings of crime have certainly served the Cane family well.
A smartly dressed woman opens the door and waits for me to exit the car.
“Detective, this way.” She leads me inside the house and past numerous doors. “Mr Cane will call for you when he’s ready.”
I nod, and cross my hands in front, trying to quieten my nerves. The lady, a housekeeper of sorts, I guess, disappears back into the house.
The wooden doors are intricately carved, and I focus on the craftsmanship rather than what’s coming next. Suddenly, I feel like there’s a clock lodged in my chest where my heart should be, counting down the seconds until coming face to face with Quinn Cane.
“Come!” A voice echoes from behind the door. I step up and twist the handle.
The room opens up, and towards the end is a tall window with a desk in front. The silhouette of a man stands before it, as though surveying everything in his kingdom.
“Cane,” I call as I stride through towards him, feeling ready to take him on.
He slowly turns as I come to a pause in front of the desk. Just the look of him makes me back up a step. Older. Harsher. He glares, looking me over.
“McCarthy. The same McCarthy who visited my brother before he was killed, I presume," he says, coming toward me. I keep my feet planted, refusing to show weakness around him. Perhaps, if I don’t show fear, he’ll go easy on me, but his arm twists so quick that before I can react, the muzzle of a 9mm is pushed into my forehead.
The metal is cold against my skin and my eyes suddenly shimmer with tears because I know that he knows me as more than just the cop who visited his brother.
“What business could you possibly have here?” His eyes scream hatred at me, but I stay standing, regardless of my fear, and keep my gaze tight on his. Logan needs Quinn to act, not concern himself with me.
“Logan sent me.”
His eyes flash at the mention of his son. A good sign at least, but he doesn’t lower the gun or back away. My lashes brush a tear down my cheek as I try to blink them back, some part of me hoping he'll just calm down and listen.
“Why are you still alive, let alone here about Logan?” he seethes.
The gun digs into my skull even further as I try to pull away. Every part of me wishes I could take a step backwards, or flinch, run even, because he’s far too close for my liking. It’s as if his proximity brings everything to the surface, reminding me of my own faults.
“He’s in trouble.”
“Like my brother, and what happened to him?" His voice cracks around the room, making me jump and trip backwards, falling into the chair behind me. "You killed him!” He leans over me, caging me in further with his arm as the gun is once again levelled at my head.
“I didn’t kill him. It wasn’t me. I was there, but Mortoni made the shot. Logan tried to get in its path, and I tried to save him. I swear." My body retreats back in fear, squashing into the cushions. "Logan needs you. He said to tell you Senator Kelly and some access code.” My breathing is ragged as I watch the change in emotions flash over Quinn’s features for the briefest time. So much like Logan. So aggressive and violent. I can see the fire in both of them.
He doesn’t respond but keeps me under his scrutiny and backs up a few steps giving me some much-needed room.
“Last I knew, you were locked up and expecting a bullet. At least Carter reported that was the case. How the fuck are you here now and Logan is in trouble? And don’t think I won’t put a bullet in your brain, McCarthy. My brother was everything to me and you were one of the ones who took him from me.”
To make his point, he moves the gun and aims at the cushion a few inches from my head and fires. The bang makes me twist away, and I clutch at my ears trying to protect myself from the thunderous noise. They ring loudly, and I have to blink a few times to re-orientate myself with the buzzing in my ear.
“Talk. Why aren’t you dead?” His lips move, and I have to follow them, trying to follow what he's saying. Why I'm not dead is a good question.
“Logan played me.” The words sound muffled because of my hearing. “He tortured me, hit me and shot me through with drugs. I-”
“Yet you’re still here. Breathing," he bites.
