Seething, I spit in his face. “Fuck you.”
With a wicked laugh, he releases his hold and straightens to his full height, towering over me. “Maybe one day. If you’re lucky.”
I STARE BLANKLY AT THE balding, middle-aged man seated across the table from me, my mouth hanging agape. Time is at a standstill in the ritzy oyster bar of the Bayside Marina, where we sit at a table near the window. Easton is stunned silent next to me, Jae in a similar speechless state at my diagonal.
I’m in shock. We all are. Complete fucking shock. Unable to even process the words Marshal Doherty just spoke. Words that shred me to my core.
Lies. It has to be lies. That’s my initial thought, though I know what he says is one-hundred percent true. He has no reason to be dishonest. He’s shown me the articles on his phone. It’s her in the pictures. Looking exactly like she did in the photos inside the hidden envelope in her drawer. Like the one I took and keep in my desk.
“Who?” I ask, finally able to manage words. “Who do you think has her? Honestly.”
The suit-clad man sighs and crosses his arms over his chest, eyeing me with a circumspect hesitation. If he’s smart, he can sense the desperation oozing from my pores, and he realizes how dangerously devoted to finding Blake I am. No one will stop my efforts to find her, especially not after what he just revealed about her unthinkable past.
“The first place we’ll look is Chicago,” he concedes, his voice so low it can barely be heard over the buzz from people around us. “Vincent Ricci has become one of the most powerful underbosses in America over the past few years, and he has made no secret he’s looking for the woman who murdered his son. There’s a pretty price on her head. It may take a couple of days for whoever has her to get her there, but I’ll have my guys working close to him, keeping their ears to the ground. The Italians are known for having flashy, extravagant celebrations when they torture and kill someone they’ve been searching for. A way to show their entire community what will happen to you if you’re ever marked as an enemy of theirs. If he has her, we’ll know soon. They’ll want everyone to know.”
My stomach rolls, threatening to revolt at the images in my mind of where she could be. What they could be doing to her. If this sick fuck has her . . . I shudder at the thought. Though I’m slightly hurt from her deception, I understand why she didn’t tell me, and my primary concern now is alleviating the danger that looms over Blake . . . or Bryleigh . . . no, fuck that. She’s still Blake. My Blake. My sweet girl.
“Soon isn’t good enough,” I roar, not caring if people nearby look over at us.
The last forty-eight hours have been like something straight out of a Quentin Tarantino film. I’ve gone from having a missing girlfriend, to watching her abduction on the building video surveillance feed, to learning she was once married to, and eventually was involved in the death of, a member of the Italian mafia. I’ve faced one crazy fucking revelation after another, and now, here I sit with a US Marshal, waiting for a girl I’ve known since I was a kid—someone who I thought was a family friend—to dock, so we can question her about any involvement in my girlfriend’s kidnapping.
It’s all so fucking surreal. No one could make this shit up.
As I turn to my brother, I squeeze my hands into tight fists atop the polished wood table. “Easton, I swear to God, if I find out you knew anything about this—about who she was—I’m going to fucking kill you.”
My tone is low and clipped. It’s the second time I’ve threatened my brother’s life in as many days, but this time I’m afraid I might just mean it. He stole my first love from me, having no regards for my feelings or brotherly love while he was burying his cock inside my fiancée’s pussy over a decade ago, and I’ll be damned if he takes Blake away from me now.
“Dude, Mad, I had no fucking clue about any of this. And if I did, I would’ve told you immediately. I swear to God,” he contends, his eyes wide. He’s either really as taken aback about learning all of this as I am, or he’s a really fucking good actor. I’m praying for the former.
I glance impatiently down at my watch then return my focus to Marshal Doherty. “She should be here soon. What’s the plan when we see her?”
“I’ll allow you—and you alone—to accompany me when I approach her to explain I’m taking her in for a few questions. I need you to try to keep her from getting too defensive, but give her absolutely no information. If she refuses, I’ll be forced to cuff and detain her,” he explains, clearly preferring the first option. “I’d rather we not make a scene. Then, you’ll be allowed to follow me back into town and listen in on the interrogation from another room. Depending on her answers, she’ll either be kept and charged, or released. This questioning is based solely on circumstantial evidence, and if she pushes the issue, there’s not much we can legally do.”
“Got it.” I nod and take a drink of the ice water, locking my unwavering gaze at the end of the pier. The moment Emerson appears in my line of sight, about ten minutes later, I rush to my feet and announce, “It’s time to get some answers.”
“I’ve told you already. I’m not leaving anything out,” Emerson insists, pursing her red-stained lips as she slams the palms of her manicured hands on the stainless steel table in front of her. Even after spending a couple of days at sea, she somehow looks completely put together with designer clothes, coordinating accessories, and heels. The epitome of high maintenance.
“Tell me again,” Marshal Doherty orders firmly, his penetrating stare untiring. “Why were you in Madden Decker’s office on Friday afternoon, alone?”
“I went into Madden’s office Friday afternoon to drop off a report I was working on before I left for my vacation. I don’t know where he was or why his assistant wasn’t at her desk. Why? What is going on?” Her nervous gaze flits around the cold interrogation room, searching for something. “Where did Madden go? Is he listening in? I want him in here.”
The clock on the wall loudly ticks off the seconds as I watch the two of them face-off from behind a pane of surveillance glass. I desperately want to rush in there and demand she stop playing games, that she tell me what happened to Blake, but I don’t. I can’t. I know Doherty is doing me a favor by including me to this extent already. Though, truth be told, he probably knows I’d be doing my own form of questioning to her later.
“Emerson, this is serious,” he snaps, leaning closer to her to stress the importance of her next answer. “If you’re lying, you could face serious prison time. Not to mention, your answers could possibly keep Mr. Decker out of trouble. Do you remember anything out of the ordinary when you were in his office Friday? Did you touch anything on his desk?”
She swallows hard and drops her chin to her chest, and at first, I get hopeful, thinking she’s about to admit her guilt. To tell us something . . . anything. But then as tears swell in her eyes and she adamantly shakes her strawberry curls around her shoulders, I begin to question my initial assumption. Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe I’m reaching. Maybe I’m just too desperate to place blame.
“I swear to you. I didn’t see anything,” she maintains her stance. “I don’t know what’s going on, or what you want me to say, but I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m always working in the best interest of Decker Enterprises. I’m the most loyal employee they have.”
Doherty does little to conceal his disappointment when he announces she’s free to go, running exasperated fingers through the thin hair covering his scalp. Since Emerson claims knowledge of nothing and we don’t have physical proof of her participation in the abduction, there’s not much we can do.