Page 3 of Beautiful Deception
The police, I think distractedly with a breath of relief.
I swallow the clump of nerves down my throat, clearing them under my breath, and try to ignore the wave of irritation when I watch my car’s side mirror detach pitifully and fall to the ground.
The aftermath paperwork for my car is something I don’t want to handle. I assume there are forms I have to fill out to send the car to the recycling center, and I’d rather spend that time on things I want to do.
Well, I guess that isn’t my car anymore.
I take a step away from the swarm of people shouting over each other to find out what happened and book a ride-share on my phone.
Why are they acting like they’ve never seen a car crash before?
After three additional black SUVs arrive and block off the road, they identify themselves as the FBI and request that everyone move back. The man who crashed into my car is nowhere to be seen. He should be easy to spot because he’s the tallest of them and the only one who isn’t wearing the bright jacket branded with "FBI" in neon block letters.
“The government will reimburse your car.”
My head jerks to the left, where the man is standing with a small cut on the side of his face, likely from the shards of window glass. My eyes widen in surprise, a fusion of gratitude and skepticism tugging at my senses.
“That’s not my car.” The sky is starting to darken, even though it’s much earlier than when the sun sets during winter.
Now that I remember, it’s winter, and this man is standing on slushed snowy ground, wearing a T-shirt that strains against his thick muscles.
“It’s registered under your name.” His voice, soft and indifferent, feels nice compared to the screeching whispers of bystanders speculating on what the unconscious man had done to be chased down by FBI agents.
He hands me the insurance paperwork, and I’m left wondering where he got it because my car is completely totaled on the passenger side.
“How do you know who I am?” I question, hating his poised confidence that cements my feet to the damp ground.
He taps the transparent earpiece hanging around his neck and shows my photo on his phone screen.
“You were easy to find,” he remarks curtly, nodding to the insurance paperwork in my fingers.
“I don’t want it anymore,” I mumble as I throw a quick peek at the smoke billowing from the car engine.
“You’ll need to come with me to make a statement.” He doesn’t seem to notice that he's taking a step forward and blocking my view of the debris.
“Orders from the top,” he adds as soon as my face twists impatiently.
“I’ll only go if it’s the nearest police station,” I say, “and I can get there on my own.”
Is there any certainty that he is who he claims to be? It wouldn’t be the first time someone pretended to be a government official. The last time someone did this, they made headlines and received a lengthy prison sentence.
“My name is Remo,” he airs candidly and puts the earpiece back into his ear before walking away.
I flinch away from the sharp honking of a car, and my skin falls back into the same pulsing cadence as when I was with Dr. Kian.
I look around, searching for him, but he’s not outside. A disturbance this loud should have everyone’s attention, but Dr. Kian is also not fond of delving into other people’s business.
However, it feels like it goes against human nature not to be nosy to an extent.
Maybe he’s looking out the huge window in his office. It has a perfect view of the street.
My phone dings with the notification that my driver has arrived at the end of the street. I hurriedly walked to the car and had the ride redirected to the nearest police station. Despite the traffic, the trip is pretty short.
Remo is already outside the station when the car arrives. I don’t understand how he could get here faster than me when he was busy talking to the other agents when I left.
“This way,” he says, motioning me to follow him with a faint tilt of his head.
I draw the coat collar up my neck and watch the muscles tightly coil on his back as he dodges the officers bustling around the station. As we pass by the desks, someone hands him a folder without looking up from the computer. He comes across an empty room that looks like a hybrid between an interrogation room and a meeting room.