Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Fine, when do we go?”
“Let’s meet at the station in an hour.”
“All right. See you then.” I end the call, my mind racing. I need a shower to clear my head and clean my body of the lingering terror from the nightmare.
The water beats down on me as I stand there letting it wash over me. I try not to think about what could have possibly developed, but the thoughts creep in anyway.
I finish my shower and pull on some fresh clothes.
At the police station, Blake is waiting for me.
“Jason,” he says, his voice steady and reassuring.
Except it doesn’t steady me or reassure me.
“Blake.” I force a smile onto my face.
He looks at me for a moment before we go into the station. His gaze seems inquisitive. If he has a freaking question, I wish he’d just ask it.
The inside is too bright, sterile like the operating room. The comparison sends a shudder through me, but I squash it down. I follow Blake toward an interrogation room.
Detective Mann is waiting for us. She has short brown hair and sharp features that make her look both beautiful and intimidating. She doesn’t get up when we enter, just looks at us with an unreadable expression.
Great.
“Dr. Lansing,” she says, her voice cold. “And you must be Mr. Haywood.”
“I am.”
“Please,” she says. “Have a seat.”
I sit across from Detective Mann, Blake to my right.
She opens a folder. “We have a question for you, Dr. Lansing.”
“Shoot,” I say.
The detective meets my gaze. “What exactly were you doing at Ralph Normandy’s apartment last night?”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Angie
I’m back at the damned hospital, taking the elevator up to Ralph’s room.
I’d rather be almost anywhere else, but I need answers.
What does all of this have to do with Jason? With me?
A nurse, the same one as yesterday, greets me with a polite smile as I approach Ralph’s room. “You’re here to see Mr. Normandy?” she asks, her eyes full of sympathy.
Clearly she thinks I care about Ralph.
“Yes,” I reply.
She nods and points me toward Ralph’s room.
The sight of him lying so still and helpless on the hospital bed doesn’t faze me. He looks terrible, but I have no sympathy.
Not after how he’s treated me, and more so because of what he’s putting Jason through.
I take a deep breath and approach his bedside, pulling up a chair to sit. “Wake up, Ralph,” I say, not quietly.
But Ralph doesn’t stir. His chest rises and falls rhythmically.
“Damn it, Ralph,” I mutter, my anger flaring. “Wake up. You owe me some answers.” I reach out and shake his shoulder slightly.
Still no response. My heart thuds.
I look around the room. The smell of disinfectant hangs in the air, and I can hear the distant echo of nurses chatting down the hallway. It all feels so detached from reality, like a scene from a movie.
I yank on his arm. I don’t care if it hurts. “Wake the fuck up, Ralph!”
Finally, his eyes open.
Just as I thought. He’s been awake this whole time.
“What is it?” he grits out.
“Why me?” I demand.
His lips slowly twist into a smirk. “Why not?”
Oh, man. If he weren’t so pathetic, I’d smack him across his smug face right now.
I clench my jaw, my fingers curling into fists. Why not? That’s the best he can come up with? After everything, after dragging Jason into this mess, after lying here playing the victim while Jason’s life is falling apart?
I lean in closer, my voice sharp. “Cut the bullshit. I know you’re enjoying this—sitting in that bed, letting everyone think you’re the helpless one. But you’re not. You did this to yourself. And you’re trying to make Jason pay for it, even though you and I both know he had nothing to do with you getting hurt.”
His lips twitch, just the faintest ghost of amusement.
Amusement.
The bastard thinks this is funny.
“I didn’t do anything,” he mutters, his voice raspy but full of that same arrogance that makes me want to shove his damned IV stand over.
I narrow my eyes. “What do you have against Jason? Why are you doing this to him?”
Ralph smirks. “Maybe you should ask him.”
A sharp burst of rage flares in my chest. I did ask him. And Jason told me exactly what I needed to hear—he had nothing to do with this, and he has no idea what Ralph could possibly have to gain.
I won’t let Ralph get under my skin. I can’t.
“You think you’re clever,” I say, my voice quieter now. “But you’re not.”
His smirk fades, his eyes hardening. “Yet here you are,” he says. “Sitting by my bed. Asking me for answers. Maybe I have more power than you think.”
I grip the edge of the chair so tightly my knuckles ache. “You don’t have power, Ralph. You have desperation.”
He doesn’t respond, but I see it—just for a second. A flicker of something behind his tired, sunken eyes.