Page 49 of Bitter Lies

“I’ll get to you in a second, Mr. Bishop. If you’re lucky, I’ll not arrest you for entering a secured building without authorization.” D.C. Sanders shoots Aiden a withering glare. “Don’t push me.”

I walk him through step by step. Explain how I found Gram’s bedroom door open, how odd that was. What I did after finding her passed out in the gallery. How we made it out.

As he’s writing, he pauses and glances up. “You didn’t try to find your grandfather?”

“No. I wanted to, but I was already coughing. Grams was in such dire shape, I knew if I did, she might not make it.” I swallow my emotions very close to the edge of losing my shit. “His room is on the other side of the penthouse. Grams is next to mine. So, it was only logical to go there first.”

“Your grandparents have separate bedrooms?” D.C. Sanders flips his notepad and scribbles something on the next page.

“Yes, they’ve had separate bedrooms for as long as I can remember.” I sigh, not understanding why that matters. “Now tell me, why all these questions?”

Flipping the notepad closed, he nods. “We found your grandfather in his bathroom. A single gunshot to the back of his head. Do you own a gun, Dr. Reyes?”

My vision blurs, and the world shrinks and distorts before my eyes.

“What?” My lungs burn, and each breath feels like a struggle. “No.”

Then it hits me like a bolt of lightning, and I’m struck by the truth. “You think I shot him?”

“Did you?” D.C. Sanders asks, his voice absolutely serious.

“No. Like I said, I don’t own a gun.” I hiccup, my eyes blinking rapidly as tears cloud my vision. “And before you go accusing my grandmother, you need to know she hates guns. Refuses to touch them. If he had one, it would be locked away inside his office safe.”

“Did you have access to that safe?”

“No!” I don’t mean to shout, but fuck him and his accusations. “Only my grandfather knows… knew the combination to that safe. He was a very private man. Old-fashioned in his ideas about a woman’s place. Even with my medical degree, I had a hell of a time getting him to let me consult on my grandmother’s care.”

God, that sounds so horrible. But it’s true. After she had a meltdown at a dinner party in front of his business associates, my grandfather was done with her. I stepped in when he was about to put her into a facility. He made me promise to handle her doctors and hire a home healthcare assistant so he wouldn’t have to deal with her anymore.

Her nurse wasn’t around this weekend because I was. I always take over my grandmother’s care when I visit, giving us privacy and me time to assess her without prying eyes.

“Are you sure your grandmother⁠—”

“Enough!” Aiden’s silence has apparently reached its limit. “Have you talked to Alma?”

“Not yet. The doctor was with her, so I came here first.” With a flick of his wrist, Sanders opens his notebook. “What about you, Mr. Bishop? Did you have a beef with Mr. Lopez?”

The tension in the air builds as the men square off once more.

Gritting his teeth, Aiden grunts. “No.”

He releases my hand and folds his arms, daring the detective to push him. “Would you like an account of my evening as well?”

“If you are willing, yes.” D.C. Sanders clicks his pen, ready to jot down the details. “What time did you arrive at the Hyde Park building?”

“We drove by sometime after four.” He doesn’t offer more.

“We?” Sanders glances up. “And why were you out so late? Where were you coming from?”

Aiden cracks his neck, his gaze flickering my way, something dark passing through it before it’s gone. “I was helping a friend of Mr. Doyle’s get home. He wasn’t fit to drive, so I drove him and had someone else pick me up. We passed by on the way to retrieve my car. I saw the smoke and reacted. Jumped out. Found a way inside. Took the stairs to the Lopez penthouse. Helped a firefighter. He carried Alma. I carried Isabel. That’s how I got here.”

He keeps it vague. Too vague. I’m sure the detective has questions. If not, I definitely do.

Sweat beads form on D.C. Sanders’s brow, his nerves giving him away. He swallows and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Mr. Doyle? Trent Doyle?” When he goes to write, his hand shakes.

“Yes and no. This was a friend of Silas Doyle’s. I work with him. Both men, I guess, if I’m being honest.” Aiden is completely in his element, enjoying this far too much. “Is that a problem?”