“Ms. Emily Lopez?” the frowning man queries, cocking a brow, and I turn towards him once more. Out of the corner of my eye, I note that the other man’s scowl deepens, almost as if he’s peeved I took my attention off of him.
“Yes?”
“We have a few questions to ask you.”
Almost mechanically, I step back to allow the men entry into my home. My sanctuary. Disgust curdles in my stomach when the first officer brushes his hand against my arm, and I just barely rein in the urge to flash him an infuriated scowl. But that disgust turns into liquid heat when the second man, the angry one, touches me with his elbow.
What the fuck?
“What is this about, officers?” I question innocently as I move to the connecting kitchen, starting a pot of coffee. The last thing I want to do is be interrogated by the police for hours because of the car bomb. And…I don’t know why. Shouldn’t I want them to know, so they can protect me? Shouldn’t I spill the truth to them?
However, the words refuse to leave my suddenly dry lips as a tinny voice in my head demands that I stay quiet. I’ve had this voice since I was a child, since I first started training with my older brothers. It told me when to duck and when to punch back. When to run and when to fight. I trust this voice more than I trust anything or anyone else.
“I’m Officer Lawson, and this is my partner, Officer Blake,” the friendly one introduces.
“Are you aware of an incident that happened less than an hour ago to your car?” Officer Blake—or Officer Grumpy-Dildo—fires at me.
I school my features into one of shock and disbelief.
“What?” I ask, pleased when my voice trembles. Though, it’s not all an act, at least not entirely. I’m not shocked by their words themselves, more so the fact that someone actually tried to kill me.
Someone. Tried. To. Kill. Me.
“I-I drove to campus, but decided to walk back home,” I stutter out. “It was too beautiful of a day for me not to. I planned on grabbing my car after my six o’clock class.”
“We’re terribly sorry, Ms. Lopez,” Officer Lawson says with a sympathetic curl to his lips. “Unfortunately, the car is completely destroyed. Do you have insurance?”
“It appears to be a prank gone wrong,” Officer Grumpy-Dildo interrupts. “At least, that’s what we currently believe. We found a pack of fireworks beneath your car.”
Fireworks? I try to smooth over my expression before my confusion can bleed through. I’m not an expert on bombs—that’s more my older brother Colton’s specialty—but I’m pretty damn sure that it wasn’t fireworks taped beneath my car.
Are the police in on it?
My shrewd eyes assess them nervously, attempting to gauge their reactions, but they play their parts perfectly. The grumpy, sexy bad cop contrasted by the sweet, smiling good one.
And then I remember the man in the shadows, smoking languidly on a cigarette. It’s entirely possible he went back to the scene of the crime and replaced the bomb pieces with…fireworks? No, that sounds crazy, even to me. Unless I’m dealing with a professional assassin or something.
The mere thought is laughable. I’m Emily Lopez, trained martial artist and the girl who smiles and waves at everyone who passes. I’m nothing special, certainly not someone another person would target.
Fuck, what if this attack was random? What if the bomber will now go after another victim? Isn’t that how serial killers behave? Or maybe they’ll continue attacking me until I’m dead.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I’m barely aware of Officer Lawson requesting me to come down to the station for my statement. I’m fortunate they believe my bullshit story…though I have to wonder if any of the security cameras had caught me at the scene of the crime. Fuck, are there even security cameras pointed at the parking lot? Did I just screw myself over? Surely, they would’ve said something if that was the case, right?
My heart judders in my chest as I grip the kitchen countertop tight enough for my knuckles to whiten.
Someone tried to kill me.
And I have the distinct impression that they’ll try again.
And again.
And again.
They won’t stop until I’m dead.
CHAPTER 4
I tossed and turned all through the night. Every time I tried to close my eyes, I was bombarded with images of flames eating away at my poor car. In the distance, the man’s face was curved upwards into a devilishly wicked grin, reveling in my pain.
Now, it’s five in the morning, and I haven’t slept a wink nor do I plan to. My bedroom feels almost stifling hot, even with the window open a crack to allow natural wind in.
With a grunt, I push aside my blankets and waddle over to my closet. I grab a pair of spandex leggings and a lime-colored sports bra. After quickly changing out of my cami and sleep shorts, I brush my dark hair into a high ponytail.
I refuse, absolutely refuse, to allow that jackass to destroy me. I’ll never be the type of girl to wallow in a corner, sobbing and screaming and blaming the universe. No, the universe doesn’t control me. I create my own destiny, craft it from the shitty blob of clay I’ve been given.
Maybe it’s stupidity. Maybe it’s bravery. All I know for certain is I refuse to cower, refuse to show fear.
I grab my headphones from my nightstand and queue up my favorite jogging playlist. Immediately, Ruelle’s “Monsters” blares through the speakers as I duck out of my room, walking on
