Page 88 of His Puppet

They ignore me but give each other a smug look.

They’ve been waiting a long time for this.

“What partoflawyerdo you not understand?” I ask the detective drilling me in an interrogation room while the other do-gooders watch on the other side of the glass.

I don’t know this detective, and it makes absolutely no sense. If they have something on me, the detectives on my case should be doing this. Of course, they wouldn’t be nearly this stupid to charge me for an offense like this.

Detective … Shan, I think is her name. Detective Shan slams down more photos of Emily and me from last night, as if I need the reminder of what my fiancée looks like.

“You’ll get your lawyer, Mr. Bianchi.” She leans on the table, her nostrils flaring. “But I’ll leave these here for you to look over. We have you, you son of a bitch.” Her lips lift into a smirk. “We have you spotted with the victim on multiple occasions. We have her DNA at your place. We have everything we need to put you away for life, except a body. So if you want to ever see outside of barbed wire fences again, I suggest you tell me where Emily Wilson is.”

Home, you stupid bitch.

“Lawyer,” I say, enunciating the word and leaning forward. “Now.”

She stands and sweeps her hair over her shoulder, smiling before turning around and strutting from the room. They already have my lawyer’s information from the previous times I’ve sat in this room. He’s one of Settimo’s guys, so I can count on Settimo knowing about this. I wonder what the fuck he’ll think of police breeching their agreement and storming the property like they did.

Miss Bitch shuts the door behind her, and I lean back and glare at the one-way mirror. I roll my neck and pop my knuckles, anxious for my lawyer to get here so I can sue these dumbasses for defamation of character. Settimo should be having Emily picked up from the farm now, and I’m getting hard thinking about these officers faces when she tells them she’s my fiancée.

I allow myself a small smile while I think about it.

Twenty minutes go by. Then thirty.

My foot taps as I get frustrated, and I spread out the pictures Detective Shan put in front of me out of sheer boredom.

There are plenty of shots that I can recall. Dinners together. One outside my father’s apartment. A few of us walking the Strip.

My eyes narrow as I push those out of the way and spot a photo I don’t recognize. One of a young girl with long, blonde hair, her smile forced as she poses for the professional photo. I can see the terror in her eyes, the abuse. Eyes that belong to Emily.

No.

I jerk up straight and shuffle through the photos, but that’s the only one of her as a girl. My heart beats rapidly, but my spine freezes. My stomach bottoms out, and I swallow the bile that rises up my throat.

Where did they get this picture?

My eyes dart to the glass as I hold up the photo. “Where did you get this picture?” I yell, hearing the desperation in my voice. I shoot from the chair. “Where the fuck did you get this picture?” I slam the table and can hear the panic in my hoarse, uneven breaths.

I don’t know why I’m asking them. I know where they got it.

But I don’t want to believe it.

I fuckingcan’tbelieve it.

How could he have found her? How could I not have found out about it?

Because the police didn’t tell him where she was. Someone else did.

Ellison.

My muscles tense at the realization, and rage replaces my earlier boredom.

I clench my fists and glare at the glass, my heart beating so hard I feel like it may explode.

“Get me Detective O’Rourke, and I’ll waive my right to an attorney.”

26

Emily

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