Page 23 of Queen of Anarchy (Dirty Broken Savages 2)

Not that I’d have any real reason to do it. Still, that wouldn’t usually stop someone as suspicious and generally on edge as Gage from side-eyeing most people.

But they seem to have lumped me in with the four of them, as someone who’s automatically on their side. As one of them, and therefore not a possible suspect. It’s… weird. Since I’ve known them, they’ve always had a kind of “us versus them” mentality, standing as a unit against the rest of the world, and I guess I’ve somehow been dragged into the unit with them.

Even Ash, who’s pissed at me and seems to hate me right now, didn’t start throwing accusations my way.

Everyone else in Detroit with a possible connection to Ivan or the Kings or anything close to it is a suspect, but not me.

I don’t know how to feel about that.

On one hand, it’s nice to not have to defend myself or argue the obvious—that it would be really fucking stupid of me to kill Ivan, be seen with them disposing of the body, and then try to pin the murder on them or drag the corpse up at all. On the other hand, I don’t want to think about what it means that they just consider me one of them now. I never asked for that. I never wanted it.

Idon’twant it.

My thoughts are interrupted by the doorbell ringing, and I frown. It’s early evening by this point, but past the time when salespeople might be out soliciting or whatever.

Dog barks from the other room, and I hear his nails scrabbling on the floor as he runs back and forth in front of the door.

Rolling my eyes, I go to see who it is.

I’m half expecting a Girl Scout or some old woman peddling pamphlets about Jesus, but there’s a middle aged man standing at the door. He’s nondescript looking, with sandy brown hair, a slightly crooked nose that looks like it might’ve been broken at some point, and broad shoulders. But he holds himself straight, with the kind of posture that screams “official business” and screams it loud.

“Good evening, ma’am,” he says, nodding to me. “My name is Mitch Carter. I’m with the FBI.”

He flashes his ID, and my stomach tightens. Shit. He’s the real deal.

“I need to ask you a few questions,” he continues. “Is now a good time?”

“Oh. Uh, sure. Come in, I guess.” I open the door a little wider, stepping back to let him in. I can’t exactly shut it in his face, even if I’d really like to, and his question about whether this was a good time definitely seemed like it only had one right answer.

After closing the door and calming Dog down a little, I lead the man to the kitchen, because that seems like the most neutral place in the house.

“We’re following up with all the guests who were at the gala,” he continues once we’re settled. “After the discovery of the body of Ivan St. James.”

“I see,” I reply, going for an expression of bland interest.

“You were there, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And were you acquainted with Mr. St. James?”

I shake my head. “No. I mean, I knowofhim. Most people in the city do. But I’ve never met him before.”

It’s a lie, of course, but I don’t think there’s any evidence that can tie us together. The time he kept me and my sister captive is definitely off the books, and I never got to leave the house they kept us in anyway. There wouldn’t be any witnesses that could link me to Ivan.

Carter tugs a small pad of paper from one of the pockets of his jacket and makes a note on it, nodding. “Do you have any close friends or family that have been involved with Mr. St. James or his business?”

That’s a laughable question, considering everything that man put me and my family through, but once again, I shake my head. “Not that I know of. I don’t know everything my family has ever done, but they didn’t tell me if they did.”

He writes something else down.

“How many of the guests at the gala would you say you’re acquainted with?”

“Four,” I answer honestly. Aside from the guys, I didn’t know anyone else there.

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, though, I think about that flash of what looked like Hannah’s eyes. Even still, I can’t be sure of what I saw or who it was, so the answer remains the same. I’m not about to tell this guy that I thought I saw my dead sister at the gala.

“Four. Okay. And those four would be the owners of this house?” Carter asks.

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