“Oh god,” she whispers, realization on her face that I’m not bluffing. Laughing, I reach into the desk drawer and pull out the gun my father shot Devin with, “God won’t help you.” It seems fitting that she would die by the same one, only the other Johnson son turning on her.
About Michelle Brown
Michelle writes in multiple genres such as Mafia Romance, Dark Romance, Horror Fiction, and many more. She lives in a small town located in North Carolina, USA. A wife and mother, she writes stories that will break your heart only to put it back together again, just a bit bloodier. Michelle also co-writes with a close friend under the pen name Ally Michelle.
Follow the author here: https://linktr.ee/MBrown
Other Books by Michelle Brown
Blood & Roses
In Pieces Duet
In Plain Sight by Ally Michelle
Chapter One
Winston Asher Harrington
My fingers strum nervously atop the worn pine table. Its surface scarred from what I imagine is years of individuals pleading innocent and spewing obscenities at a fatigued agent on the opposite side, unaffected by the outburst.
Innocent until proven guilty is what they always say.
Except in my case, I am guilty.
No matter how much I try to forget, the memory of what I've done consumes me, and the only way to overcome this burden is to turn myself in. I realize the consequences could mean prison time. But it's better than spending an eternity with this weight on my shoulders.
So here I sit, waiting.
I've memorized every scuff, crack, and imperfection on the four dingy white walls of this temporary cage while avoiding the elephant in the room, a two-way mirror. It tempts me like a scantily clad teenage girl in a high school classroom.
I know they're watching. They're always watching. But if I give in, taking even the slightest glance, they'll see right through my façade. Instead, I focus on a red splotch no bigger than a pencil eraser and let my mind wander. Is it blood? DNA left by a stranger who sat in this very chair and stared at the same four white walls? Or is it something less impressive, like ink from a marker? I shrug to myself, arching my back slightly.
Hours have passed since they brought me in, and my spine aches from years of proper etiquette training. Ingrained in my mind from the tender age of six, if I slouch even the slightest, my muscles tense preparing for a belt while the bold voice of my father rings in my ears. "Sit up straight."
He's dead now, and I'm not going to waste my thoughts on him, but his discipline will forever live on in the deepest part of my brain.
A glance at the clock tells me I've been waiting far too long. I can't sit any longer. I need to get up and stretch my legs. So, I do. Since they haven't read me my Miranda Rights, I'm able to move freely about the room. Every so often bending and touching my toes to stretch out stiff muscles.
Standing straight, I twist my body from side to side and think about why I'm here. Legally I could leave. If there were anything substantial on me, I'd be in cuffs right now. Instead, they're making me sweat it out with the hopes of getting a confession. Little do they know I was ready to confess the instant they sat me down in this room, but their tactics aren't working. It's just the opposite. "The longer I wait, the less interest I have in telling them anything." I think to myself.
The thought flits from my mind as quickly as it came when the door opens and in walks, two men—dressed in jeans and button-down dress shirts, each with a badge suspended from a chain and lying flat against their chests.
It's no secret who's a good cop from the bad. The older gentleman is ten or so years older than me. His face creased with years of fighting bad guys while the younger guy appears just out of high school. I believe he and I had been in Mr. Gantry's class together.
"Lance? Lance Freeman, is that you?" I ask, crossing my arms and challenging his authority.
He counters by stiffening his stance. "Detective Freeman to you, Mr. Harrington. Please, take a seat. My partner Detective Winslow here, and we have some questions to ask."
Detective? How is that possible? Lance and I didn't graduate but four years ago and while I didn't know much of him then I would've surely heard if he'd finished college. Hell, there would've been a parade. It's the one thing you can be sure of living in the town of Silvercrest. Any achievement is an excuse for a black-tie celebration, just like the masquerade ball hosted by the mayor over the weekend.
If he's made detective already it means, there was money involved.
I eye him cautiously, curious about his status and about what they might have on me, but his expression is that of a poker player and gives nothing away. Finding out my fate will mean more time in the cold metal folding chair. Reluctantly I take a seat. "Well get on with it then, I have homework to grade and tests to plan for tomorrow's classes."
Lance settles in the seat across from me while Detective Winslow perches a cheek on the edge of the table in front. Intimidation is his intent, but it has little effect. In my line of work, thick skin is a requirement. Teenagers are not kind people, especially those with money.
"Mr. Harrington, do you know why you're here?"
