Page 99 of Fall to Me
What the fuck?
I hold open the door for him, and he steps inside behind me. Digging my shoes out of my locker, I sit down on the bench and put them on, then hang my skates in my locker. The officer doesn’t say anything to me, just turns his head, looking around our locker room.
“Look.” I say, drawing the officer’s attention back to me. “I’m not asking to shower. Just let me get out of these pads at least? Change into the clothes I came in? You’re in here, and I’m obviously not going anywhere without you.”
“Make it quick,” he clips, then watches my every move. It’s unnerving.
Once I’m back in my street clothes, they follow me out to the parking lot, making me lead the way, then cram me into the back of the police cruiser. I ask at least a dozen questions on our thirty-minute drive down to the station but gain no answers in return. The car ride is brutal on my nerves. Once there, theofficer, whose name on his uniform reads Valdez, leads me down the hallway to an empty room.
“Detective Matthews will be in to visit with you in a few.”
“You said my wife is here. I want to speak to her.”
He leaves, shutting the door without a word. I sit in a classic interrogation room like the ones you might see on TV. The clock on the wall ticks in time with the grinding of my molars. In the corner of the room is a camera that I know is trained on me. My fingers tap on the metal table in front of me.
Where is my wife, and what the fuck going on?
I sit there, my knee bouncing and my stomach turning with worry and anxiety. Though, I guess I need to look at it as we’re at a police station and not a hospital, so she must be okay like they said.
The air shifts as the door opens. “You’re not an easy man to track down,” a voice says behind me.
I turn my head, looking back. A tall, older man in black slacks and a light blue button up shirt shuts the door and rounds the desk. He pulls out a chair and sits in front of me, tossing down a yellow notepad and a folder onto the cold, metal table as he straightens his tie. Now that he’s closer, I can tell he’s really not that old at all, despite the deep lines that mar his forehead. He’s probably in his mid-forties. You can tell each one of those lines hold a story that he keeps locked up tight. I can’t imagine the things he’s seen.
“I’m the detective investigating your wife’s attack. Damn near took me pulling teeth to get my hands on that security footage. Imagine my surprise when we viewed the surveillance video.”
My eyes don’t leave him while I wait for what he’s found. I know from his body language and the way I’ve been treated that I’m not here for an update; I’m here for an interrogation. I just don’t understand why.
“You see, the security footage shows you and your wife were the only ones to leave and enter the penthouse that day.”
Though I want to jump up, yell, scream, and tell him that’s bullshit, I even out my breathing instead. In a normal situation, I might lose my shit, but right now he’s assessing my behavior. Just as he’s analyzing me, I’m analyzing him. I’m reading his body language, tone, and expression. And from all three, I can tell the best thing for me to do is sit in my seat and stay calm.
“Sir, I can assure you, Jaxon entered our penthouse. Are you positive you have the correct footage?”
“Don’t insult me. I know how to do my job, Mr. Graham. I’ve seen guys like you. Big name, hot shot athletes, who beat their wives, thinking they can get away with it because of who they are. They convince their wives to lie for them or blame someone or something else. Well, let me tell you something; that’s not going to work with me.”
I’m not even going to entertain the dig at my career because he’s not wrong. We hear all the time about famous people getting away with all kinds of shit.
“I would like to see the footage.”
“You would like to see the footage,” he chuckles, his tone mocking as he shakes his head in disbelief.
“Yes, please,” I say in an even tone, maintaining eye contact with him.
He shifts in his seat, his brow tugging deep, like he’s trying to figure me out. As he studies me, I already have him figured out. I know he’s seen a case like he’s described one too many times. I would be willing to bet that he had no choice but to let someone walk, only for it to end badly. And in his mind, he thinks that if he can get it right this time, he can absolve himself from some of the guilt he carries.
“I can assure you, sir, I would never hurt my wife. I’m not insulting your intelligence, I’m only informing you that you have the wrong footage.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No, sir,” I say, steepling my fingers together. “Given what I know about domestic abuse, I would hope that you wouldn’t believe that, nor let me go easily. Not because I’m guilty. I’m not. It’s just . . . if someone would have done their job correctly the first time and dug deeper into Jaxon when he nearly killed my wife two years ago, then we wouldn’t be here now. I don’t expect you to believe anything I say. I expect you to use proper evidence in your investigation. I expect you to build a solid case against the bastard who did this to my wife.”
He taps on the table with his pen as his eyes narrow at me. “What time did you come home the night of the attack?”
“Do you even know the date of the attack?” I counter.
I’m not trying to be a smartass; I’m proving a point. He opens the file and his eyes scan over the report.
“Sir,” I say, garnering his attention. He looks up from his folder. “I want Jaxon Martin locked up. I want my wife safe. You have me here, interrogating me . . . and fine, do your due diligence, but while you’re wasting time on me, Jaxon is out there. He could be plotting his next move, and who knows what the outcome of that move could be. I’m asking you to double check the date on that footage.”
