Page 75 of Madness & Mayhem
“You’ll be going down for this, you sick fuck. Murdering all those innocent people.”
None of them were innocent. Not a single one.
“I hope you become the little bitch to all the men in the prison. See what fear really feels like,” one of the officers barks in my ear, his breath smelling like onions.
This early in the morning? Really?
I’m hauled into the air, my arms yanked aggressively behind me. The feel of cold metal wraps around my wrists as they shackle me in cuffs. They tighten them uncomfortably, until my circulation is nearly cut off from my hands.
They drag me through the snow, barking degrading comments in my direction as they haul to me a police car.
“You’re a piece of shit. You deserve to rot in your cell.”
“I hope they string you up by your balls.”
“I’m going to make sure you get the worst penalty possible.”
They go on and on, and I drown them out as my eyes scan the horizon, hoping for a glance of Lakyn, and also hoping she’s long gone. She ran. I watched her run for a long time, but I have no idea if she hid to watch me, if she’s waiting for me to get away, or if she left.
I hope she went to them. To him. He’ll protect her like no one other than me can. She needs them. They’ll keep her safe when I can’t.
Fuck, don’t let anything happen to you, baby Lake.
They open the back door to the police car, roughly shoving me in the back seat. The seats are plastic, hard against my body and extremely uncomfortable. I slide around, a constant chill running through my body.
One of the officers leans down, his head shoving inside the police car. “Piece of shit,” he growls at me before slamming the door in my face.
I slide into a sitting position and watch the officers and FBI huddle into a circle, mumbling about me. I can’t make out what their saying, but every once in a while one of them turns to glance at me, glaring at me with pure hatred.
Slouching down in my chair, I wait for them to be done talking to me when one of the main officers, a man in his late forties, with salt-and-pepper hair, a large puffy police coat, and his hand permanently attached to his gun holster as if he needs to warn me at all that he’s armed, walks toward the driver’s side of the car.
Sliding in, he turns it on, warm air instantly blasting from the vents.
“Want to tell me where your little friend went off to?” he asks as he turns the car around and begins making his way out of the woods.
I say nothing, my wrists aching fiercely behind my back, and I focus on the pain, instead of this man’s line of questioning. Not going there. I refuse.
“If you help us get her, we might be able to reduce your sentencing,” he says after a minute.
I let out a laugh, shaking my head. Saying nothing.
“Is something funny back there?” he barks.
I shake my head again. “Everything is funny.”
“Like your little friend you let run away. Is she funny?” he pokes.
I cut my glare to him. “Don’t fucking talk about her.”
He grips his steering wheel, a smile taking over his face. “She hits the button inside of you, doesn’t she?”
I tilt my head to the side. “You might be able to say that.”
“Do you know where she is right now?” he asks after another minute.
My eyes narrow at him. “I thought I told you to not fucking talk about her.”
He sighs heavily, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “You’d rather have a longer sentence than give up the girl?”