“And?”
“And he was shivved in jail.” I stare through the window, watch putty-gray office buildings fly past. We’re drawing farther and farther into the city. The streets are getting narrower, sidewalks clogged with men and women leaving work. Their eyes glide right past the town car. It’s like we’re invisible because we look like we belong. “I think Joe was waiting for a plea bargain or something.”
“Did they ever find out who killed him?”
“No.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
“Look at me. Wick? Look. At. Me.”
I grit my teeth, turn to Hart. I’m careful to keep my face blank, but I can’t stop my fingers from digging into the smooth leather seats. If he looks down, he’ll see and he’ll know.
“Let me ask it this way,” Hart says. “Were you involved in killing him?”
“Of course not.”
Hart twists to face me fully. “You lie beautifully.” He turns the folder around and pushes it toward me. “Here. Look. This is what we think happened.”
My stomach tilts. The entire folder is dedicated to me. There are pictures—Lily with me; Bren with me; my best friend, Lauren, with me—and reports. Someone had been watching, cataloging everything: my visit to Joe, Lily’s attack by one of Joe’s men, how I went to see Michael the next day.
That was sloppy of me, but I’d been too panicked to wait. One of Joe’s grunts had jumped my sister on her way home from school. She was terrified and I knew Joe was getting out. He’d struck some deal with the Feds and once he was free . . . well, it didn’t take much imagination to know what would happen next.
Yes, it was noted by the police that I visited both men. Yes, until then, I had never visited either of them. But without anyone knowing about Lily’s attack, I was pretty safe. Lily covered for me, for us. And without anyone able to connect my visits . . . well, it was fairly easy to explain everything away.
Except apparently Hart’s people did connect it. They figured out Lily was the hidden piece.
I close the folder, feel cold sweat roll beneath my clothes.
“Now,” Hart says, leaning closer. “Tell me what really happened.”
“Joe killed my mother. He knew she was informing on my dad—on him—so he dragged her to the top of an unsecured building, told her if she didn’t jump he would kill my sister and me.”
“And what did you do with that information?”
“I told Michael.” It sounds so innocent when I say the words like that, but it’s not. I did not put the knife in Joe’s stomach, but by telling Michael, I might as well have.
“And you knew your dad would respond like that?” Hart asks.
“I had a hunch.”
“Interesting. Do you think he loved her?”
I blink, try to fit my head around Hart’s sudden detour. “Michael beat my mother. Badly. That’s not love.”
“Maybe for him it was. He could destroy her, but no one else could.”
I sneak a sideways glance at Hart. Something ahead of us has caught his interest, and in this unguarded moment he looks different. Without the smile, Hart’s face is hard, angular . . . watchful. His skin’s pale and a little waxy like he doesn’t see sunshine much. And as I watch, his right hand drifts backward, like he’s thinking of going for his pocket . . . or his gun.
It stops, but he continues to watch the window. Whatever he’s seen bothers him, but I can’t tell what it is.
“Are we being followed?” I ask.
Hart considers me. “I want to lie and say no . . . but, somehow, I think that would be a very big mistake with you.”
A tiny part of me likes Hart more for recognizing this. It would be a mistake because I could never trust him again. But I don’t get the chance to tell him anything because just as I open my mouth, an SUV slams into us.
3
Our car fishtails to the left as the SUV plows into our right and keeps coming.
The force slings me to my side, the seat belt slicing into my ribs. I brace one hand against the seat and suck in a single breath before we’re hit again.
Hart swears, scrounges for something on the floorboard. I don’t know how he can even move. My seat belt is cutting into my neck, my stomach. I flatten one hand against the door and then the seat.
They hit us even harder this time.
My teeth jam together, crushing my tongue until I taste blood, and I still can’t stop watching. I don’t understand. This isn’t a random accident. They’re coming after us, almost pushing the town car sideways.
The SUV slows and our car straightens, accelerates. I slump. Escaping. We’re escaping.
Then the other driver guns it again. He rams us and I’m spinning above it all, watching my door buckle under the larger car’s grill.
I twist, bracing both hands on either side of me as we’re shoved under the shadow of an office building. Our car skids . . . skids . . . collides.