Page 35 of The Hate We Breathe
He groans, but tosses me the cell keys and doesn’t stick around or complain any further. The entire time, Donovan doesn’t make a sound. He doesn’t lift his head.
Placing my back against the wall, I wait for the guard to finish walking the distance to the door at the end of the hall. As soon as he’s through, I wait another thirty seconds and reach into my pocket. Hitting the button on what looks like a key fob, but is a very small disrupting device. A small green light illuminates and I know for at least the next five minutes, any and all cameras in the nearby area will start glitching.
“Get up,” I bark as I shove it back into my pocket and march to the cell door, unlocking it with the keys.
Donovan’s head snaps up and he blinks at me, his face a molted mess of bruises, cuts, and haggard exhaustion. Well, I suppose that explains why they’ve been babying him.
“W-who—” he begins to stutter as I step into his cell.
Eyes wide, he cuts himself off and shrinks away from my imposing presence. I don’t back off. Instead, I move forward, reaching him in a few quick strides to pull him up to sitting on the cot.
“You and I need to have a chat, Mr. Donovan.”
“W-what do you want?” Allen Donovan asks, a hiccup in his voice even as he tries to straighten his shoulders and look bigger, stronger, not as afraid. The way he flinches ruins the attempt when I stand back up.
There’s another metal cot anchored to the wall across from him and I take a seat, bending low to set my elbows on my knees. “I want information,” I tell him. “And you’re going to give it to me.”
“I don’t have?—”
“I’ll tell you what you do or don’t have,” I say, cutting him off. His mouth snaps shut and he blinks back at me, almost owlishly. This is what happens when you give the men false power and money. The second they fall from grace, they become nothing more than weak-willed saps.
Pulling out my cell, I turn on the recording app I installed—brand new and completely unhackable, thanks to some work on my part. I’m not going to forget a single moment of this conversation. We need to end whoever is trying to hurt my girl.
“I’m going to ask you a series of questions.”
Allen just stares back at me.
“I’m not a lawyer and I’m not your friend. Donotfucking lie to me.” I glare at him and he shrinks back, pressing his spine into the wall behind him as if he can get away. “You won’t like what I do if you lie to me.”
“W-what will y-you do?” he stutters, pupils blowing out.
Inhaling deeply to repress my annoyance, I slip a blade from my pocket—it was a bit harder to get this through the security system, but when there’s a will there’s a way. There was no way I was coming into this prison without a weapon, though. Flicking it open, I take in the pallor of his face and sweat begins to dot his bruised forehead.
“You don’t want to know,” I say, letting the blade’s presence insinuate what I don’t say. “Now, let’s begin. When did you meet Morpheus Calloway and decide to go into business with him?”
Allen frowns as if that hadn’t been what he was expecting. “What?”
“Answer the question.”
He stares at me, the fear slowly shifting into curiosity mixed with confusion. “I-I met him in college,” he admits. “We came from the same background.” I don’t have to ask what kind of background that would be. I’ve done enough research in the last several months to know that both Calloway and Donovan come from long lines of blue bloods and filthy rich motherfuckers.
“We opened Donovan-Calloway Industries when we decided to set down roots in Silverwood,” he continues. “It was as good a place as any—close to the cities, but not…” He drifts off and I can just imagine what he’s thinking.
“No competition?” I guess sardonically. Allen Donovan grimaces, confirming my suspicions.
“The town was happy to have us,” he says, tone defensive. “We poured a lot of money into the place. We practically built the prep academy.”
I nod. “What were each of your roles in the business?”
“I-I was the face,” he admits. “I found investors, handled marketing and hiring, and managed the people.”
“Did you handle any of the finances?” I ask.
“Well, of course, but I didn’t embezzle from my own damn company!” he bites out, finally showing some backbone. “I didn’t need to. No one seems to understand that! I wasn’t in debt. I had money. Why would I need to steal?”
I agree with him, but with the lack of evidence pointing in any other direction, I also understand why the justice system has kept him in lockup. By his own admission too, Donovan was the face of the business—which is how everyone in Silverwood came to hate him. Guilty until proven innocent, the mob mentality’s motto, rather than the opposite it should be. Not that he’ll get much sympathy from me. He’d built the prep academy and ultimately taken Juliet from me.
“Do you suspect Calloway had a hand in the embezzlement?”
