Page 50 of Remnants: Disruption
“Remnants heal quicker than humans,” I say, wincing as the bullet-sized wound pulsates. “And why the fuck did he shoot me? I was literally just standing there.”
Anger is good.
Anger obliterates the pain. It stuffs the confusion in the dumpster and lights the fucking thing on fire.
I can work with anger.
“You were resisting arrest,” Bellick says with a stupid shrug.
“I was confused by the sudden fragments of my front door showering my apartment,” my voice rises in pitch as I lean forward, the cuffs clinking roughly. “The fuck am I being arrested for?”
Bellick doesn’t even react to my outburst. He just glances down at the tablet in his hands.
“Detective De Luca is dead.”
The look he gives me isn’t one of condolence. It isn’t even one of mild sadness at the death of a coworker.
No, he’s grinning at me. He’s looking at me like this is a private joke between us.
When I say nothing in response, his grin turns more sinister. The balding spot on his head shines with sweat as he leans forward in his seat.
I can smell the sweat and nicotine wafting off him with the barest hint of ventilation in the room. Even without my heightened senses, it’s disgusting.
“You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“She’s—” I try my best attempt at shock. Though, at this juncture, all I can really muster is a mute numbness.
But it’ll have to do.
“Dead,” he nods. “Murdered, it seems. Two Remnants were at the scene with her.”
“And?” I ask, annoyed that he’s playing this like it’s a procedural cop drama. I should tear his fucking spine out—
“Omen, for one,” he checks the tablet again like he doesn’t already know. “And The Dark One.”
“Then why the fuck are you attacking me about it, then?” I bite back, letting the anger run its course.
“Where were you last night around five in the evening?” He responds, ignoring me.
“Bellick, if I were one of those two Remnants, do you think I’d let you arrest me?”
Bellick doesn’t look up from his tablet, but I see the subtle shift in his cheek. The sudden “oh, shit” moment.
“Where were you?” He asks again, this time looking up at me.
“At home,” I grit out, my tone probably not helping my innocence.
“Can anyone confirm that?” he asks, giving me a quirked eyebrow.
“No,” I hiss.
He snorts as he types something into his tablet.
“Is this fucking funny to you?” I pull at the cuffs at my wrists. They strain a little and it’s enough to tell me that they weren’t built for someone like me. “You shoot me in the head, pull me out of my home, and tell me my best friend is dead. And then you fucking accuse me of it?”
“No one’s—”
Blood rushes in my ears as I try to get as close as I can to Bellick. The chair creaks as the cuff’s chain crinkles.
