Page 10 of Shattered Salvation
I glare at him. “I never said that. I never said Grayson was mine either.”
Dana twists around her chair, tapping her pen on her chin. “Kade, your expressions give you away. We all know about Emrys. And you’ve never cared about anyone in that precinct before so...”
“I need to know if there’s someone who actually believes I’m innocent.”
“Suurrre,” they both echo.
I drag a hand down my face and plop into my chair, refusing to dignify that with an answer. I know Emrys is mine and not being able to have him near is killing me even if we’ve never established anything between us. As for Grayson...
Nope. Not thinking about that.
"Keep tracing the accounts," I tell Dana, my voice regaining its edge. "I want every name associated with Blue Horizon. I don't care if it's a janitor or a CEO. If they’ve touched the Cardinal Network, I want their lives dismantled."
I walk back to my private office and shut the door, the silence finally settling over me. I pull my phone from my pocket, scrolling to the contact I shouldn't have.Emrys. I haven't called him. I can't. The court order is explicit, and one wrong move puts me back in a cell, leaving him completely unprotected.
My phone buzzes, my brows furrowing when I catch Baxter’s name across the message.
Baxter: No new information but seems Grayson is reliable enough. I’m sure Sloane gave you the lowdown.
I snort.
Me: Yeah, a little too much information.
Baxter: It’s not hard to see that you were interested.
Me: Stay focused.
I can imagine the old man laughing at me but I don’t need that right now.
Baxter: Unfortunately, it’s a waiting game. Stay put. Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll call you in the morning.
I almost put my phone away when there’s one more text.
Baxter: And whatever you do, don’t fucking call Emrys.
I growl at that before reaching back over my head and pulling off my shirt. A grimace pulls at my face as I realize the flour I’m still covered in and the faint vanilla wafting off the fabric. This is going to be a long night.
Emrys
They release me at half past one with two cards, a folded leaflet, and the foil blanket still wrapped around my shoulders because nobody asks for it back.
I keep waiting for someone to notice. It seems like the sort of thing that should belong to a process, like the blanket should be returned to a bin or a cabinet or whatever other place the city keeps objects that have touched people during the worst night of their life. Instead, I stand near the front desk of Ansdale station with the silver edges crinkling under my fingers whilean officer explains follow-up numbers, victim services, signs of concussion, and what I’m supposed to do if I remember anything else. She’s so careful with me. Everyone has become very careful now that the wrong man has already been put in cuffs, but careful still doesn’t feel like listening.
I ask about Kade again before she finishes talking. It might be the fifth time. It might be the sixth if the question I tried to ask in the hallway counts, the one that got stuck somewhere between my throat and the card Reyes pressed into my hand. I asked the nurse who checked my pupils. I asked Detective Reyes twice. I asked Skylar, though he gave me the only answer that didn’t feel like it had been sanded down by policy before being handed to me. Everyone else keeps giving me sideways versions of the same thing. Mr. Rourke is cooperating. Mr. Rourke has counsel. Mr. Rourke is not being booked at this time. Mr. Rourke will be notified of next steps.
Nobody says he’s fine.
Nobody says they’re sorry for putting him in the back of a patrol car while I was standing there with blood in my mouth trying to tell them he was the reason I could still breathe.
This officer glances toward the hall as if the correct answer might be walking past with a file in its hand. “Mr. Rourke has been released from custody for now. I can’t discuss any restrictions, but he has counsel, and the investigation is active.”
Restrictions.
The word tucks itself under my ribs and stays there. “But he didn’t do it.”
“I understand that’s your statement,” she says, and I hate the way she makes that sound. “Detective Grayson has your account.”
I mutter a thank you as another officer guides me into the back of a cruiser before heading back to my apartment. I huff out a breath and look at the window, a tear slipping down myface. This night wasn’t supposed to end like this. I was going to go upstairs, maybe bake something, and then leave it in front of Kade’s door for him to find in the morning.
