Page 95 of Vengeful Vows

I’m drawn from dangerous thoughts when Detective Pascall repeats, “Miskaela Palkova?”

My anger that she is endeavoring to drag Mara into a fight she doesn’t belong in makes my reply dry and full of deceit. “I don’t know who that is.”

“Oh…” She can’t pull off a daft expression. She looks constipated. “Then why were you seen getting in a cab with her last month?”

My jaw flexes when she pulls out the image that forced me to keep my desires on the back burner for two weeks. Not once has this image worked in my favor. It has slapped me in the face time and time again, and I see it doing the same now as well.

“This is you, isn’t it?” She taps on the image of me sliding in the back of a cab on Mara and Tillie’s heels. “It sure looks like you.”

“It is me,” I agree, lost as to where she is going with this, but confident I won’t like the direction she takes. “But I still don’t know who Miskaela Palkova is.”

“She”—she points to Mara—“is Miskaela Palkova.”

“Oh.” My daft expression is far more convincing than hers. “Then why didn’t you just say that?” I pick up the image of Mara, Tillie, and me like my heart isn’t racing before inspecting it with more diligence. “Ah. Yes. That is the woman who promised to dry clean the suit jacket her daughter had vomited on?—”

“Daughter?” she interrupts. “Miskaela’s child is a girl?”

I shrug, hopeful it will hide my wish to cringe. This is why I got into politics. I’m a shit actor. “Or perhaps she was her nanny. I didn’t ask for details. I followed her to make sure she upheld her pledge.” I scoff like it isn’t absurd to ask something of someone with nothing. “My jacket was from a limited collection. I didn’t want to be lumped with an excessive dry-cleaning bill when I wasn’t responsible for the mess.”

Detective Pascall glares at me as if I am a pig. Since I’ve felt nothing close to clean in the past three days, I don’t display my disdain. “You followed her into a cab to make sure she paid the dry-cleaning bill of a sick child?”

“Yes.”

I take a mental note to increase the pays of my security team when she flicks to a fresh page of her notepad before asking, “Do you recall the address she recited to the driver?”

I take a moment, pretending to think, before shaking my head. “No.”

Sanya huffs, aware I am lying.

I hit her with a snarl like I don’t appreciate being unfairly interrogated when I was of the belief that was the reason for her visit. “I followed her into the cab to ensure her offer was sincere. I exited two blocks later when she handed me enough funds to cover my dry-cleaning fee.”

“She paid you with cash?” She jots down a note when I dip my chin. “Did you see her wallet? Did she have enough funds to pay for a long or short fare?”

“I don’t recall.” A spark of brilliance hits me. “Though I do remember her saying something about motion sickness tablets being a waste of money.” I stare her dead set in the eyes. “Perhaps she was heading to the airport?”

“Perhaps,” she mimics through clenched teeth before announcing I have every right to have my defenses up. “Murderers are known to skip town after committing a crime. They rarely stay to clean up their mess.”

I swallow harshly. “Murderer?” When she nods, I laugh as if death is humorous. “I can assure you, Detective Pascall, there wasn’t a single droplet of blood on Ms. Palkova.” When suspicion hardens her features, I add, “I am a man, and she is a gorgeous woman. Of course I looked.”

“Was this…looklong enough to spot stains over six years old?”

Her question deposits me into the middle of the Amazon without a life vest in sight. I can’t speak, swallow, or move. I can’t do anything but stare in bewilderment.

While smirking smugly, loving my frozen status, Detective Pascall stores away her notepad before filling her empty hand with a business card. “If you hear anything about Ms. Palkova’s whereabouts or think of anything that may come in handy with my investigation, you can reach me here.” She drags her finger under her cell phone number scribbled on the back of her card.

After a final smirk, she leaves without so much as a backward glance.

Just as fast, I race to the elevator and select the floor below the penthouse. I’m swimming in waters outside of my depth, and Mara taught me it is better to stretch for a life jacket than unnecessarily drown.

“That isn’t wise,” a voice sounds from a speaker above my head. “Doc worked the nightshift, and Maksim is paranoid as fuck about her sleep schedule. If you wake her, you’ll be a dead man.”

I raise my eyes to the blinking contraption above my head before saying, “This isn’t about me. It is for Mara.”

A chair creaking into place booms around the elevator before, “I’m gonna need more information. Mara is in favor to the Ivanovs”—the possessiveness in his tone pisses me off—“but you’ll need more than being on Maksim’s good side if you fuck with his wife’s sleeping schedule.” Humor highlights his tone more than anger during his next sentence. “Forcing him to pull out mid-nap will fuck with her sleeping schedule.”

I’m lost, and it is heard in my tone. “It’s urgent.”

When he hums like he handles fabricated murder charges on the daily, I push out, “Detective Pascall was meant to take my confession for a murder charge, not pin one on Mara.”

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