Page 111 of Immoral

He takes my silence as a yes. He leans closer. "Choice one. You go to jail for life."

My insides quiver. I've never committed a crime in my life. I have no idea what my DNA has to do with anything or why it would be at any crime scene. I keep my gaze on Contray and tell myself to pretend I'm Gianni. I attempt to harden my expression so I don't appear to be scared. "I'm unsure why you believe a judge would ever sentence me to prison. I've been a law-abiding citizen my entire life."

He tilts his head while a new wave of pity washes over his expression. I become more emotional, and I blink hard, willing myself not to tear up. He glances behind him then tugs his chair closer to the table. "Mrs. Marino, you have a second option."

"An option to avoid prison when I've not done anything?" I angrily spout, sitting up taller and finding my strength.

"Ah, but you have, haven't you?" he replies.

"What are you talking about?" I question again, slightly louder.

He sits back in his seat. His tone turns to one of no-nonsense. "Option two. You help us, and you get to keep your record clean and your freedom."

The room seems to get smaller. My chest tightens, making it harder to breathe in the stale air. Everything about this detective makes me feel sick. The thought of helping him do anything makes me want to gag. Losing my cool, I spout, "Help you do what?"

"I think you know the answer to that," he arrogantly states.

He wants me to take down Gianni.

More nausea hits me. I start to count, glancing at Contray's oily hair, greasy skin, and potbelly hitting the table. He's the opposite of everything my husband represents. And Gianni may not be a saint, but this guy isn't, either. The difference is Gianni doesn't hide who he is or his faults. He recognizes them. I bet Detective Contray goes to sleep at night thinking he's righteous. But my gut says there's no way he's never bent the law in his favor.

He runs his fat paws through his locks. Then he picks up a thick folder and drops it on the table in front of me. "Go ahead, Mrs. Marino. Take a look."

I curl my toes in my heels so I don't fidget. My insides tremble harder, and after a short stare down, I cautiously open the folder, then immediately shut it. I turn my head, trying to erase what I just saw.

"No. I want you to really look at these photos," Contray orders, grabbing a photo and holding it in front of me.

As soon as I see the man with no life left in him and a bullet hole in his head, I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my nausea to disappear.

Contray's voice hardens. "There are twenty more men in this folder. Each one, your husband murdered or played a role in their deaths."

The sound of metal scraping on the floor hits my ears. I open my eyes to find Contray sitting at the end of the table, less than a foot from me, putting all the photos on the table within my view. Each one represents another display of gore and death.

Contray's musky cologne flares in my nostrils, adding to my qualms. I muster all the strength I have, scoot my chair back, and rise. "I want to see my husband, right now," I repeat, but it sounds weak. Dizziness slams into me. I place my hand on the desk then quickly sit back down.

"Ah, yes. I see you're affected by these photos," he cockily states.

I avoid looking at the dead men. "I don't know anything about this. My husband doesn't, either, I can assure you."

Contray begins to chuckle as the door flies open. A skinny man wearing a similar cheap suit in navy steps inside and shuts the door. He drills his eyes on me and pulls the other chair back. "I'm Detective Anderson. I just spoke with the District Attorney. He's willing to make a deal with you for your cooperation."

The hairs on my arms rise. I grit my teeth, take in several deep breaths, and count. I finally reply, "I've committed no crimes. I want to see my husband now."

He shakes his head as if I'm a stupid child who just isn't understanding what he wants me to. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Marino. Your husband is in custody and won't be leaving anytime soon, if ever, unless you cooperate."

My lips tremble. The tears I've tried to keep in check flow down my cheeks. My voice breaks as I cry out, "I want to see my husband!"

Contray turns to Anderson, speaking like I'm not in the room. "She doesn't seem to be scared of prison."

The walls feel like they're caving in on me. I screech, no longer able to maintain any composure, "I've not done anything!"

Anderson angrily barks while pointing at me, "Your DNA states otherwise."

I glance back and forth between the two men, not believing what's happening. Then I mutter, "Fuck you." I walk past them and try to open the door, but it's locked.

I stare at it, my heart racing and fear exploding all around me.

Are they going to keep me here forever?

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