Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 115619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
BIANCA
I hate walking into situations without knowing what to expect. After Ken called me, at least ten different scenarios were running rampant in my mind. The entire drive to the station, I white-knuckled the steering wheel, praying it wasn’t as bad as my imagination was making it out to me.
Please, don’t let this be too bad. Please. I can’t shake the mental image of overturned desks and bullet holes in the walls from my head. He wouldn’t go completely off the rails like that… would he? I wish I was confident enough to believe my own thoughts, but I’m not. My father is determined to get to the bottom of this and has nothing left to lose.
I climb the stairs leading up to the enormous glass doors, my heart pounding into my throat. At least the glass is intact, so I’ll take that as a good sign.
The air is thick and heavy as soon as I step inside. Right away, the cop behind the desk cuts me off, “Excuse me, Miss, do you have an appointment.” I halt in my tracks and scan the station for Ken.
Across the room, Ken spots me from the back corner, near his office. “Let her through, Tim.” With a reluctant shake of his head, Tim steps out of the way and I walk around him. I sigh and swallow around the knot that’s forming in my throat. Okay. Everything looks like it’s in one piece. No desks overturned, and no bullet holes. Things already appear better than I thought they would be. Snickers and whispers resound from across the room. Don’t they have anything better to do than sit here and gossip? All I can think is: Which one of you screwed him over?
My teeth bite into my tongue. I know better than to lash out with words. It won’t change their opinion, anyway. They could be watching me right now, knowing what they’ve done. A couple of plain-clothed officers—detectives maybe, I don’t know—mutter to each other while following my progress.
Ken waves me over to him while his gaze sweeps from me to his office and back again. “I managed to convince him to quiet down,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth. “Told him it was either that or I’d have to throw him down in a holding cell.”
He grimaces like the thought makes him uncomfortable. I guess that would be rock bottom; to end up where you've placed so many people before.
Through the office door windows, I can see half of my father sitting in the chair behind Ken's desk, his hands behind his back. “You restrained him?” I whisper, horrified.
“I didn’t want to, but I was running out of options,” he says while throwing a bitter look toward the door. “It was the only way I could ensure he wouldn't try to log into the network from my computer.”
“That makes sense.” Even if I hate it, I can tell he does, too. This can’t be easy for him after all the time they’ve known each other.
Still, before I can set foot in that room, I need to know what I’m up against, “What happened?”
Ken blows out a sigh, shaking his head. “Came into the station ranting and raving. Throwing accusations around, yelling like a crazy person about blood-money and murderers. When they tried to apprehend him, he swung at a couple of the guys. Luckily I was here and was able to step in and take over.”
“Which guys?” I scan the room, except what am I hoping to find? A few black eyes, perhaps. It's wrong, though a big part of me hopes he got to hit at least one of them. Even if it’s awful for my father to behave this way, to lash out and act irrationally. Someone in this station helped cover up my mother’s murder.
“None of that matters. I called you because I need you to calm him down and get him home before this escalates any further. Do you think you can get through to him?”
Goddamnit, Dad. All I can do is shake my head. “I don't have a choice, do I?” And that, I think, is what sucks most of all about this. I don't have a choice. I can't remember the last time I did. It’s either help or allow them to throw him in a cell.
I feel like a mother getting ready to scold her misbehaving son. Still, after everything he's put me through lately, I can't seem to push away my remorse for him. I’m just one more person telling him he's mistaken, and he's heard so much of that already.
This is not the place, however. There are too many eyes here. I don't want to buy into all of his theories and go down the rabbit hole with him, but I can't pretend there isn't uncertainty in my gut that gets bigger the longer I stand here. There’s an energy of resentment that coats the air like heavy smoke.