I glanced at her, confused. “Your shoelaces?”
“You put socks on my feet and tied my shoelaces when I couldn’t . . . because you didn’t want me to go outside and have cold feet.”
“Well, yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“For . . . socks?”
“For noticing that I needed them.”
She’d lost me. “I don’t understand.”
Laney gave a small smile. “I know. But you helped me when I needed it, and now I’m doing the same.”
I didn’t eat much of my breakfast pizza. My anxiety was contagious and Laney ended up asking the server to wrap the food to go.
By the time we reached the car, I must have looked as if I was about to bolt because Laney took my hand and squeezed my fingers.
Christ, that hurt!
I grunted and yanked my hand free.
“Sorry!” Laney gasped, wide-eyed.
I shook my head and held my hand tightly against my chest, willing the pain away.
“W-what did I do?”
I grimaced. “I broke my fingers a while ago. They’re still sore sometimes.”
“How did you do that?”
I didn’t answer, and Laney paled as realization swamped her.
“Oh,” she said softly, her expression wounded.
We rode to the police station in silence. I felt shitty that I’d hurt her—again. All she’d wanted was to give me comfort. I couldn’t even get that right.
When I saw the police station, an involuntary shudder ran through me. It was an ugly concrete bunker, squat and low with small, featureless windows, and I was already fighting back the idea that I’d be locked up in there. I’d never liked small spaces but since being trapped in the back of Sergei’s car, dislike had turned to panic.
My hands started to shake and I swallowed several times, trying not to throw up.
“It’s going to be alright,” Laney said, as she pulled into the parking lot.
I stared at her, wanting to believe it badly.
“Ash,” she said softly, stroking my cheek. “It’s going to be alright.”
I blinked, then took a trembling breath and leaned into her hand.
We stayed there, touching, eyes closed. And when we walked into the building, she gently took hold of my other hand.
Laney’s father came as soon as the desk sergeant informed him that we’d arrived.
“Hey, pumpkin!”
When he noticed that we were holding hands, he frowned, and his voice immediately became all business.
“We’re ready for you now. Laney, you’re in with Mark and Luis; Mr. Novak, you’ll be with Detectives Petronelli and Ramos. And this is Angela Pinto—she’s your legal counsel.”
A tall, curvy blonde woman smiled at Laney and they hugged quickly.
“Angie! Thank you so much for doing this.”
“No problem, Laney. I’m happy to.”
“This is my friend, Ash.”
Angela glanced at Laney quizzically, then introduced herself to me as we shook hands. I muttered something unintelligible, and was led away. It felt like I was going to my execution. Laney gave me an encouraging smile.
I couldn’t return it.
“Do you need an interpreter, Mr. Novak?”
“Ash?” Laney asked when I didn’t answer.
“What? Uh, no. Thank you.”
“Well, if you’re sure . . .”
I nodded curtly. I couldn’t imagine delaying this any longer, even though I wanted to puke. Or run.
The interview room was brightly lit and quite large, but there were no windows, and I felt an unexpected wave of panic start to choke me. My brain imagined that I was trapped in here with Oleg, and I gasped for air, feeling like I was drowning. I closed my eyes and fought to control my breathing.
I couldn’t seem to stop my body reacting to a threat that probably wasn’t even there. But bad things happened in police stations, didn’t they? My body started to shake.
“Could we get Mr. Novak some water, please?”
I heard Angela’s voice but it was several minutes before I got a grip, and then one of the police officers returned with a paper cup of water. I stared at it, wondering if I’d be able to pick it up without dropping it. I managed to take a sip before water slopped over the sides of the cup.
“We can do this another time,” Angela said, earning an annoyed look from one of the detectives.
“No,” I said hoarsely. “No, I need to get this done.”
“Interview with Alja? Novak. Detectives Derek Petronelli and Oscar Ramos and Mr. Novak’s attorney Angela Pinto are present. So, Mr. Novak, for the record, could you give us your full name, date of birth and address.”
“Alja? Novak. March 15th 1992.”
“And what is your address—for the record?”
“I was staying with my friend Luka Kokot back home. You want that address?”
Not that it would do them any good as he was on tour.
“Could you tell us where you met Miss Hennessey?”
“In Las Vegas. She was in a club at the hotel with her friends. We talked for two or three minutes.”
“And?”