Page 44 of True Bastard
Shit. Shit. Shit!
Thinking quickly, I simply said, “I meant to say, knowing Jessup, he’s probably in a ditch somewhere. I haven’t seen him in weeks.”
Detective Powell’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t press further right away. Instead, he shifted in his seat and glanced at his partner. “If you haven’t seen him in weeks, do you have any idea where he might have gone?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral. The air in the room grew heavier as I shook my head, desperately hoping they wouldn’t see through my hastily constructed story. I couldn’t tell them about the Brotherhood of Bastards, about Firestride, about the horror of that day. It was too much. Too dangerous. They wouldn’t understand, and even if they did, the truth would only put me and anyone I cared about in greater danger.
Detective Ibanez’s pen scratched against his notepad, his expression unreadable. “And the Death Dogs?” he asked, his voice even. “What do you know about them?”
I shifted in my seat; the worn, comfortable couch did little to ease my nerves. I knew enough about the Death Dogs to know they were a dangerous breed, their reputation preceding them like a thunderclap. And Jessup’s affiliation with them only solidified the icy dread that had settled in my gut.
“They’re a biker club,” I said, my words deliberately vague, a carefully constructed half-truth. “Jessup was involved with them. That’s all I know.” I forced myself to meet their gazes, to project an air of casual disinterest, a performance I’d perfected in the face of constant threat. But beneath the veneer of calm, my heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a desperate drumbeat of fear and a growing certainty that the past, no matter how hard I tried to outrun it, was always one step behind.
“And what can you tell us about the Brotherhood of Bastards?”
“The Brotherhood of Bastards?” I repeated, feigning ignorance. “I... I’ve heard of them. They’re a big club, aren’t they? From what I understand, they’re pretty ruthless.” My voice was deliberately shaky, a performance I’d honed through years of necessity. I knew the names, the legends, whispered in hushed tones even in the civilian world. They were the embodiment of everything I’d tried to leave behind—a dark undercurrent in the world I inhabited. And now, through Jessup, and then Firestride, I was inextricably entangled.
Detective Ibanez’s pen scratched faster. “Ruthless is putting it mildly. They’re known for their territorial disputes, their violence... and their code. They don’t tolerate betrayal. We’re looking into any possible connection between the Death Dogs and the Brotherhood, given Jessup’s involvement with both.” He paused, his gaze sharp, searching my face for any flicker of reaction. “You say you haven’t seen Jessup in weeks. Did he mention anything about the trouble he might be in? Any enemies?”
I shook my head, playing the part of the victim, the wronged wife, perfectly. “No. Nothing. He was always... vague. I tried to distance myself from his world as much as possible. I just wanted a normal life. A quiet life.”
My words were nothing more than a desperate lie woven from threads of truth and tailored for their ears. I knew too much, saw too much, and the Brotherhood of Bastards, the Death Dogs, Jessup—they were all part of a dangerous constellation that was pulling me into its dark orbit. And somewhere in the swirling chaos, Firestride, the Devil in leather, was the gravitational force I couldn’t escape.
“Does the name Joshua Michael mean anything to you?”
I blinked. The name, Joshua Michael, was like a phantom touch, a ghost from a life I’d tried to bury so deep it might as well have ceased to exist. It was the name Firestride hadconfessed; the name tied to the secrets that had fractured the Brotherhood and now threatened to shatter my own fragile peace. The detectives’ eyes, sharp and expectant, locked onto mine, waiting for a reaction, confirmation, or admission. The carefully constructed mask of ignorance I’d worn all morning threatened to crumble.
“Joshua Michael?” I repeated, my voice barely a whisper, the name tasting foreign and dangerous on my tongue. A tremor ran through me, a chilling echo of Firestride’s confession, of the raw pain in his voice when he spoke that name. The weight of his secrets, now shared with me, felt like a leaden cloak, a burden I was ill-equipped to carry. The detectives exchanged a glance, their shared understanding a silent accusation.
They knew I knew something.
The question was, what would I choose to reveal? The truth, with its inherent dangers, or the lie, a fragile shield that had already proven so inadequate.
My mind, a battlefield of fear and a desperate, burgeoning loyalty to the man who had both tormented and intrigued me, wrestled with the choice. The image of Firestride’s pained confession, his raw vulnerability, warred with the brutal reality of the Brotherhood’s world, a world where secrets were currency and betrayal meant death. These detectives, with their earnest questions and eager pens, were merely pawns in a much larger, far more dangerous game—a game I was now irrevocably a part of.
“No,” I finally managed, my voice barely audible, a desperate whisper against the rising tide of my complicity. “The name means nothing to me. I’ve never heard of anyone with that name.”
The lie felt like a betrayal—a betrayal of Firestride, of myself, and of the fragile hope for a different future that had bloomed in the darkness. But in this world, survival often meant choosingthe path of least resistance, and the path of lies was the only one that seemed to offer any semblance of safety.
The detectives exchanged another look, this one more pointed, a silent acknowledgment of my evasiveness. Detective Powell, his expression unreadable, made a note. “Alright, Miss Ward. If you think of anything, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to call us.” He handed me a card, the raised lettering a stark contrast to the flimsy paper of my own notes. “We’ll be in touch.”
The unspoken implication was clear: they weren’t done with me.
Not by a long shot.
As they left, the heavy door of the farmhouse clicked shut, leaving me alone with Aunt Karen and the stifling weight of my secrets. The illusion of safety had shattered, replaced by the terrifying realization that I was a player in a game far bigger and more dangerous than I had ever imagined.
The silence in the farmhouse, once a balm, now felt like a suffocating blanket. Aunt Karen’s hand, still on my shoulder, offered a fragile warmth, but it couldn’t penetrate the icy grip of fear that had tightened around my heart. The detectives’ questions, their polite but probing inquiries, had unearthed a truth I had desperately tried to keep buried.
Joshua Michael. The name, uttered by Firestride, now echoed in my mind like a death knell. It was a name inextricably linked to the Brotherhood, to a legacy of violence, and now, to me. The tangled web of club affiliations and of family secrets had ensnared me, and there was no escape.
I was no longer just Kyllian Ward, the woman running from a violent past; I was entangled with Firestride, with his secrets, with a history that threatened to consume me whole.
Aunt Karen’s gentle voice broke through my haze of despair. “Kyllian, why did the detectives ask you about the Brotherhood?”
Her concern was genuine, a stark juxtaposition to the hardened men who now controlled my fate.
How could I explain?
How could I convey the terrifying realization that my past wasn’t just chasing me, but had ensnared me in a brutal, unforgiving present? That I had inadvertently stepped into a world where secrets were deadly and survival was a privilege, not a right.
