Page 67 of Wild Devil

I’m seated in a darkened room with only a metal table in the center and two chairs. A single light fixture in the ceiling, casts a harsh, artificial glow that is reminiscent of the clinical air of a doctor’s office. Nothing about this place instills a sense of care or comfort, however. The walls are a blank, empty gray, but I’m not fooled.

One of them more than likely sports a two-way mirror from behind which an army of officers are probably watching me right now. Along with my father for all I know. Dread builds in my stomach as I think of Daze and everything he’s been through already because of me.

Could I have just led him into one last and final trap?

No. I steel myself with a forced inhale and wait. As the seconds tick by, I decide that sitting here patiently serves no one, certainly not me.

“I’m ready to talk,” I say out loud while eyeing every inch of this narrow room. “The question is, are any of you really open to hearing the truth? Or is my father’s money enough to buy your silence even now?—”

The door opens, and a blond man steps inside. I don’t recognize him, but I can tell from his demeanor that he isn’t from around here. He isn’t overly cocky, for one, and as he approaches the table where I sit, he inclines his head respectfully toward me.

“Ms. Heywood? My name is Agent?—”

“Respectfully, I don’t care what your name is,” I blurt out. Where the hell did this newfound attitude come from? Maybe it’s simply born out of fear. The longer I stay in here, is more time that Daze is left alone. At risk. They probably took him to the same hospital they took Silas to.

Who’s to say my father and his connections haven’t already gotten to him?

“I can see that your brother was right to entrust his suspicions to you. I’m assuming he is why you pulled such a brazen stunt earlier, hijacking your father’s planned broadcast?”

I stiffen instantly at the mention of Hale. Could it be a trick? A way to taunt me before an inevitable defeat?

Deciding to play it safe, I say nothing. As the seconds tick by, the man continues to watch me, his gaze unreadable. Finally, he sighs and flattens the palm of one hand against the table, inches from my own.

“Well, I can see that we’re both ready to cut to the chase,” he says. “I’m from the Department of Homeland Security, and all I need from you is one thing. A yes or no answer.”

“What’s that?”

“To complete my investigation, I need your father on record confirming some of the accusations against him. The only one I can foresee getting anywhere is you. Are you up to that task?”

I can’t nod quickly enough, but the words that fly out of my mouth next isn’t the polite agreement the old Frey Heywood might issue. Instead, I sound more like… Daze.

A fact I proudly embrace.

“You’re damn right I am,” I say. “Just tell me when.”

THIRTY

FREY

They show me to another room, but it isn’t empty. Someone else sits at the long table identical to the one I’d been handcuffed to moments ago. Beside him is a stern-faced figure that I assume to be a lawyer. It’s ironic. My father spent so long deeming himself to be the highest authority in Westpoint City, yet even he knows when to defer to another when facing police interrogation.

When he sees me, his eyes narrow. I can’t help the instinctive twinge that makes me wince at the sight of him. My father, the all-powerful leader who ruled my entire life with an iron fist. How diminished he seems now. Still the same man, but somehow smaller in this enclosed space. When he speaks, even his voice sounds different. Gone is the resonating tenor. In its place is a rasping shadow.

“Is this the cause of all this?” he wonders. “The word of my mentally-ill daughter?”

“So you don’t deny the charges?” I spit out. My pulse is racing. I can barely sit still, and yet fear isn’t the reason for the newfound adrenaline coursing through my veins. It’s triumph. To fulfill the agent’s request, all I have to do is keep my cool.

And let him do all the talking.

“No one would believe a word coming out of your mouth,” my father counters. A muscle in his jaw twitches. A subtle but promising sign. “This is ridiculous?—”

“Ridiculous. Like your lies about Hale’s death? I know the truth,” I insist. “You can’t deny it now, and it doesn’t matter. You know, I used to admire you and your skill for leadership. I thought that bending others to your will was your strength. But Hale saw through you, right from the start. He always had.”

“Your brother was a worthless addict, Frances. I can’t be blamed for his failings any more than I could be blamed for yours.”

I don’t react to the statement right away. Instead, I take the time to settle into the moment and embrace every aspect of it. Some of what I feel is pain—there is no denying it. I look into the eyes of my father, and I can’t see the person I once admired more than anyone else in the world. That person is gone, if he ever existed in the first place.

Now, with the remnants of the horror I’ve lived through on my mind, I have no more delusions about just who I’m dealing with. A monster.

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