Page 187 of Secret Obsession
“The landlord is dead,” I tell them.
They both look at me.
I smile, but it’s desperate. “You both need to get Miles out of here. And… do either of you know a good lawyer?”
60
WILLOW
Isit in an interrogation—excuse me,interview—room, with my lawyer beside me. He’s young. Not quite just-out-of-law-school young, but young enough for me to question his experience. To which he gave me a baleful glance and continued like I hadn’t even spoken.
He arrived at the house two minutes before the police. He gave me a once-over, noting the blood on my hands, soaked through my sleeve, and the only blood that was mine: on my temple.
My head still aches.
“Caleb Asher,” he introduced, not bothering to extend a hand. “Can you tell me what happened? Quickly.”
I did. The truth. It all fell out, minus the murder in my apartment. I didn’t know where he had put his brother’s body, or if any evidence remained in my apartment. But police probably wouldn’t have reason to search it with the intent of finding blood… it was just involved in the break-in. Nothing more, nothing less.
But the rest: that this man had been stalking me, that he put another girl in the hospital, that he hit Miles’ car in a threat of aggression. Then later hitting Miles’ rental car and taking him from the crash, kidnapping me—
And then I lie.
Well, I omit.
I think Mr. Asher knows when my tale veers off course, because my words come slower. He brought me down here in the freezer, intent on torturing me. I cut myself free. Attacked him when he was distracted. The gun went off, yes, but I got the better of him. I saved myself, but I didn’t save my landlord.
He accepted it all with a nod, and then the police came screaming in. Detective Barrister was right behind them. An officer stayed with us while they searched the house, finding the two bodies.
Everything was a flurry of motion after that.
He advised me not to speak, so I didn’t. I kept my mouth shut, my eyes down. I didn’t cower, I barely trembled.
Okay, that’s a lie. I trembled the entire time.
Just fifteen minutes prior, I made two calls: one to Mr. Asher, and the next to 9-1-1. And I watched Greyson and Steele bodily drag Miles away from me.
The officer put me in the back of the cruiser and drove me to the station. My lawyer met me there.
Now, the door opens, and Detective Barrister comes in.
Having rehearsed my story once, I feel better about selling it.
Mr. Asher doesn’t look at me, but he launches into some speech about self-defense. How this man has clearly been stalking me, with the police failing to comecloseto stopping him or protecting me.
The detective seems inclined to agree, although she swabs my hands and clothes for gunshot residue. She gives me a shirt to put on as she bags mine, noting the tape’s sticky remnants on my wrists.
She swabs that, too.
“She’ll give a written statement,” Mr. Asher says as I tune back in. “And then Ms. Reed needs to go to the hospital. It should’ve been her first stop.”
“Her injuries aren’t life threatening,” the detective counters.
“Hmm,” the lawyer replies. “And if she has internal bleeding? Did Mr. Freeman kick you, Willow? Strike you in any way?”
I motion to my temple and lick my lips. “He injected me with something. I think.”
“Drugs that are working their way out of her system as we speak,” Mr. Asher spits. “I expected better from you, Detective. And seeing as how you haven’t brought charges against my client, I am electing to get her immediate medical attention.”
