Page 9 of The Hate We Breathe
As one, all of our heads turn towards the entrance. Nolan gets up and moves to open it. My eyes move to the windows, half expecting there to be flashing blue and red lights as if talking about the possibility of being accused of murder would conjure police out of nowhere. There’s none. Instead, as Nolan opens the door, my gaze moves back to find Viks there and just behind him, a man I don’t recognize—younger by a good ten years or so, but a rip cord lean and muscled man nonetheless.
Nolan shifts to the side, allowing both men inside. He holds out a hand to Viks first, taking it, and then to the second man.
“Thank you for coming,” Nolan says. “We were just about to tell Juliet about the plan.”
“You were?” My brows shoot towards my hairline as I look from Nolan to the men and back again.
Nolan cuts a dark look my way. “Yes,” he says. “We were.”
The younger man with Viks snorts and releases Nolan’s hand to move farther into the space. With so many large men in the already small house, I feel like a hobbit amongst giants.
“You must be Juliet Donovan,” he says, striding forward. Lex releases me enough that I can stand as the man comes to a stop in front of me. He holds out a hand and smiles. “My name is Abel Frazier.”
I take his hand before I recognize the name. “Frazier?” I repeat. “As in Eastpoint Fraziers?”
His smile widens. “One and the same.”
Holy. Fuck. I cast my eyes back to Nolan who stands back with Viks before I return my attention to the man still shaking my hand. I blink and let go. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I’m here to make sure you don’t get arrested for murder,” he says.
“What?”
“Sit down, Jules,” Nolan commands even as Lex’s hands creep up my sides again and he drags me back and down into his lap once more. “There’s a lot to explain.”
4
JULIET
The fluorescent lights overhead buzz like angry wasps, casting their sterile glare across the chipped metal table I’m shackled to—figuratively, of course, not literally.Yet.
Abel Frazier—mylawyer, as the guys had eventually explained—sits at my side typing away on his cell phone. I cast him a glance. He’s handsome, though a good ten or fifteen years older than me, and dressed in an impeccable suit that’s understated, but highlights his natural lithe muscular form.
“Are you allowed to have that in here?” I ask. Not that I care—I really don’t, but Iamcurious.
“You’re not under arrest,” he says absently, eyes still glued to the screen of his phone. “You’re just here to give your statement and answer a few of their questions.”
A moment of silence passes before I realize that his commentwashis answer—a nonanswer if I’ve ever heard one. If the cops didn’t give him a pat down before he came back, I guess it doesn’t matter. I return my attention to the rest of the room.
It’s little more than a square. Four cement walls interrupted only by the metal door on one side and the plate of a two-way mirror across from the table and where we sit. My nose crinkles at the scent that burns into my nostrils—old coffee and moldydesperation. Sitting here makes me feel more like a corpse left to rot in a forgotten hallway. There’s a camera in the corner, but the red light isn’t on, so it’s not recording. Not yet, anyway.
After this meeting, I expect Detective Lann—the man in charge of the investigation of Morpheus’ murder—will pore over the footage and try to find some way to pin the blame on me. Whether it’s something I say or don’t say, the twitch of an eyelash, or shifting in my seat because it hurts my ass. He’ll try to find some reason to have me back here on actual charges.
We’re still in Silverwood, after all, where they care less about the truth and more about pointing fingers at people they hate.
“Another witch hunt…” I murmur absently, staring at that camera.
“What was that?” Abel asks, finally setting his phone down on the tabletop.
I open my mouth to respond when the door swings open, crashing loudly against concrete as it hits the wall too hard. Detective Lann bustles inside, uncaring. He’s an older man with a thick mustache and gray creeping up his temples and into the dark brown head of hair he’s managed to keep over the years. He moves like he’s in his middle age, not slowly, but definitely not with speed.
The metal chair with its back to the mirror shrieks across the floor as he pulls it out. I grimace at the sound, but Abel remains quiet and unfazed. I look at him curiously. From what I know of the Frazier family in Eastpoint, they’re in the top one percent of America’s wealth. Practically richer than royalty. The kind of family that would be on equal footing with the Troyans. Yet, here he is, in a dungeon-chic interrogation room hours from his city, representing me… pro bono.
He’s got a damn good poker face too.
“Thanks for coming in,” Detective Lann huffs, not sounding all that appreciative as he takes his seat. Metal creaks.
I tilt my head and offer him a smile that I know doesn’t even look genuine. “Wouldn’t be my first time here,” I say. Because I ended up in a room just like this—months ago on that fateful night.
