“I already told you,” I said, looking right into the camera. “It was raining bullets. They stopped for gas, just before we hit the state line. The man in the front seat was fiddling with his gun. I saw my chance and I took it while the other two were using the bathroom. They didn't have the guts to chase me with bystanders around.”
“Yes, the state line, you mentioned that before. So, you're saying you never entered North Carolina at all? And the men charged with transporting you had no affiliation with the Deadhands Motorcycle Club?”
“Absolutely not,” I said.
Damn. Sweat beaded on my brow. It took all my energy not to shake. Lying like this in front of my father, the law, and God tied my intestines in knots.
If anybody found out, I had a feeling I'd be up for all kinds of perjury, but I didn't care. Anything for Skin. I owed him big time after he'd pulled strings to get me home.
I wasn't saying anything. I wasn't even going to mention the phrase 'motorcycle gang.' I couldn't screw over Skin. That meant leaving the Deadly Pistols and the Deadhands completely out of the equation in my lame ass story.
“I don't know where Ricky hired his men. Maybe they were thugs just like him, or inbred cousins. Who knows. I never saw them much before they picked me up for the trip, and I never saw them again after that night. Lord willing, I never will.”
The detective cocked his head, folded his hands, and leaned forward. “Look, Miss Wilder, we're aware the pimp had connections with the biggest outlaw motorcycle gang several states over. I'm asking you to please take a moment and think. Are you positive you never saw anyone like that while you were a prisoner? No patches, no bikes, no dirty business going down with outlaws?”
“I don't know what I saw, to be frank. Most of the men he brought to my room, I was only focused on one part of them, trying not to gag.”
My father winced next to me, and the color drained from his face. My heart sank. I felt bad about that.
My parents were good people, but they weren't emotionally equipped to handle my abuse. There was no worse torture than thinking about his precious baby being reduced to a common whore.
Of course, he was only hearing about it second hand. I'd lived it.
The nightmare was still alive in my head, coming to me in little flashes. I latched onto them and let my face crack, twisting in agony, looking up as I sniffed back tears.
I had to play the wounded dove card if I wanted to walk out of here sometime today.
“Are we done yet? Haven't you heard enough? I don't get what you want me to say – I barely got away from him with my life. Whatever you're asking me about bikers and bad guys, I don't know about any of that. I was too focused on survival, okay? If these Deadhands were ever there, I never saw a thing.”
Harlow stroked his short, gray beard and leaned back in his chair, studying me. His lips started to move, but before he could say anything, Dad jumped up, making the chair screech across our kitchen floor.
“That's enough, detective. I thought this was going to be short and sweet?” He reached up and flicked his spectacles back into place on his nose. “My daughter hasn't even been home for a full day. She needs to rest. Why don't you come back later this week? I'm confident you'll get more out of her when she's settled in.”
“Sir, I told you from the beginning it's imperative we get all the facts straight while they're fresh,” Harlow snapped.
“And they'll be plenty fresh a few days from now. She might remember more once she's cleared her head. Let me get my girl some help, and you'll be welcome back anytime. Please.”
I watched the men exchange an icy look. Finally, the detective caved, sighing as he reached for his briefcase under the table, and began to gather up his things.
“This flies in the face of procedure, Mister Wilder, but seeing how you're so well respected around these parts, I'll let it slide. Let's set something up for Thursday.”
“Of course,” Dad said simply, resting one hand on my shoulder.
I looked down. For now, I'd dodged another bullet, but the shots were going to keep coming, weren't they? So would the stress.
I didn't have a clue how I'd ever convince my parents to get me the money for Skin and his club. But I had to, if I ever wanted this to end.
If I couldn't keep up my end of the bargain that brought me home, then a few more tense discussions with the FBI and a perjury charge were going to be the least of my worries.
The next few days were a blur. Both my parents fell all over themselves offering me food, tea, and water every afternoon I stumbled downstairs after a fitful sleep. They babbled at me like I was a baby, barely able to feed myself, asking me in hushed whispers if I wanted to see a shrink today.
No. I needed my space. I had to figure out the money question before I did anything else.