I flip it open.
I know it’s a surveillance photo right away, due to the tell-tale timestamp in the corner. And I know exactly what’s going on in the freeze frame.
I’m standing over Jeffrey Douglas’ body. Even when I know what happened and why, it looks bad. Very, very bad. The quality of the photo is surprisingly good, but the camera is still too far away to decipher my expression and the way my head is angled towards him makes it look like I’m just watching him die.
Remorseless.
“Flip through the pages,” Lev says. “You’ll see that Jeffrey Douglas starts exhibiting signs of distress at 2:47 a.m. You don’t start genuinely trying to help him until 2:50 a.m. From these photos and the video—which is in here as well—it looks like you wait until he’s already dead before you budge an inch.”
“That’s not what happened and you know it.” I shove the photos back at him, desperately trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “He wouldn’t let me help him.”
“You think a jury is going to believe you when you say you couldn’t overpower a suffocating man?” he asks, his brow furrowed in pseudo-confusion. “What about when I give the prosecutor all of my surveillance footage, where it shows you entering the club—and I will tell them you’ve never been in the club before—and you end up sitting a few seats away from Jeffrey Douglas and then follow him out to the back? Where he dies.”
I sip from the rum and Coke, praying he doesn’t see that my hand is shaking. “It’s a coincidence that we were both there that night.”
“Your father has been in the police force long enough that you know juries don’t believe in coincidences,” he says. “I also have the pepper spray you used with your fingerprints on it. Juries don’t believe in coincidences, but they consider forensic evidence to be God’s word.”
I try to glare at him, but his gaze is devoid of any mercy. It makes me feel like I’m staring at the barrel of a gun.
I need to get rid of this. There’s a fire across the room—maybe if I run, I can get it burning before Lev can stop me?
Or just tear it up. Yeah, that’ll work.
No, even better—pour my drink over the files. Ruin the DVD and the paper.
I stand up, pretending to prepare to drink from my glass before I hold it up over the ammunition box and pour the drink inside it.
For one brief, tiny moment, I feel like I’m winning.
The liquor splashes into the box—not enough to make it swim like I was picturing, but hopefully enough to do sufficient damage.
Lev watches me, his face betraying nothing.
I shake the last few drops of liquid into it.
“You do what you need to do,” I say, a rosy glow of triumph in my chest. “But I hope you know that tainted evidence is worthless evidence.”
“I have copies,” he says matter-of-factly. My heart drops. “Do you really think I’d be so stupid? I also have two bartenders and members of the security team that will testify that you were stalking Mr. Douglas the whole night while barely drinking and ignoring every man who tried to talk to you.”
My grip tightens on the glass. “I’ll explain to them what happened.”
The green shade of his eyes would look like moss or sea green on anybody else, but there’s nothing soft about him. He’s a knife, cutting me to pieces.
But I’d rather be in pieces than let him think he has me under his thumb.
“Even if you were acquitted—which I doubt—your reputation and your father’s would be tarnished.” He leans back into the armchair and tents his fingers together.
He’s so relaxed, like this is just another day in the life. Hell, for him, maybe blackmail really is just run-of-the-mill business. But not for me. My heart is trembling, my fingers tap-dancing on my thigh.
“Do you recall Cliff Deforest?” he asks.
I set down the glass, letting it loudly clink against the coffee table, and fall into my seat. “No,” I say, my voice a barely audible whisper.
“He was a DEA agent. His brother revealed to Internal Affairs that Cliff regularly stole money from drug dealers. When it was disclosed to the media, the media crucified him and he ended up needing to leave his street because people kept vandalizing his house and sending him death threats. What about Roger Durward? Do you know him?”
“No,” I say, my teeth gritted together.
“He was a lieutenant. After his wife said she was attacked by two men, which she claimed is how she lost all of the money from a fundraiser, surveillance cameras showed her in a casino, spending it all on craps. Previously, Roger Durward had gone on the record to say that whoever had attacked his wife would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. After he indicated that he was reluctant to prosecute his wife for various charges, he was forced to resign. He ended up leaving after he also received death threats and couldn’t get a job anywhere in the city. His wife still went to prison. Have you heard of Doug Anson? He accepted bribes.”
I scowl. “Let me guess—he was run out of town?”
“No. I pay him to get rid of evidence.” He smiles. “He’s a very charming man. If I need him to testify to anything, he’ll gladly do it.”
“You’re the devil,” I accuse, vitriol coursing through me.
“And you’re the one who chose to slip into bed with the devil,” he replies, the slightest sneer rippling across his face. “Don’t try to shift the blame on me. I didn’t kill Jeffrey Douglas.”
“No, but you’ve done something that you’re trying to hide,” I say. “I could have my father investigate you and find out why you were so worried that I was at your
