Page 21 of To Claim A King
“I’d rather not be blindsided going into this, Hillary. Can I at least know your suspicions?”
My gaze scanned our surroundings. I no longer trusted any space that wasn’t my own—and even then, I’d been proven quite wrong recently. “I’ve heard from an inside source that I am a suspect in a series of violent crimes against men in the county.”
Weston’s booming laugh ricocheted against the stone and surrounded us with its echo. “That was not what I was expecting. Disgruntled employee? Sure. Not violence.”
The velvety brown of his irises appraised me with open curiosity, but he said nothing more. Weston’s reputation preceded him; whip-smart, ruthless, and imperturbable. Whether he believed in my innocence, he’d fight for the best verdict possible and get it, if it came to that.
We walked side by side up the granite steps and through the large double doors of the precinct. A thin, stern woman with her brunette hair pulled back into a harsh bun greeted us in the entrance.
“Ms. Lane, welcome. I’m Agent Smith, and this is Agent Arnold.”
She gestured to the older, silver-haired man beside her, who thrust out his bony hand. Once the perfunctory introductions were out of the way, she beckoned us forward through the powdered blue hallways of the building. She led us to a stark, private room with a single rectangular table and four metal chairs in the center.
“Please sit.” It was not an invitation, but a thinly veiled command. Channeling my most practiced nonchalance, I walked to the farthest chair and waited for everyone to take their seats before sitting down.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Agent Smith said, her severe expression trying its best to form a welcoming smile, and failing miserably. “Ms. Lane, I’ll cut to the chase. Given your influence and wealth, it’d be useless to play games with you, and I’m not one for theatrics.”
Agent Arnold let out a light snort beside her, as if this were an understatement.
“Where were you on September 19th of last year?” Agent Smith asked.
My eyebrows rose, surprised by the specificity of the request. “I would have to consult my calendar. I’m a busy woman.”
Except, I knew that date. That was the night Sammy and Anita’s team rescued the twin girls from Judge Cowan, and we removed his cock. I’d orchestrated the evening within the privacy of the panic room in my condo, but I’d entered my building through the underground garage and bypassed the doorman. Still, there would be camera footage of my entrance and lack of exit, which could be enough to justify a strong alibi.
My hands shook in my lap, and I clasped them tightly to stop the vibration, ignoring the sweat collecting in my palms. Better my hands than my brow. I grit my teeth, fighting a vicious battle with my facial muscles to remain neutral.
“I imagine you are,” replied Agent Smith coolly. “How about November 22nd? Or December 10th?”
My mind cycled through the information in quick succession as my stomach pulsed upward into my chest, pushing acerbic bile into the back of my throat. I cleared it once, as if considering her statement, and controlled the flow of air through my nostrils.
Slow and steady. Slooooooow and steeeeeeeeady.
Two more castrations—specifically orchestrated through my heavily fortified online back channels with Blackbird’shelp. The men we’d mutilated weren’t connected—they hadn’t even run in the same social or professional circles—so it was highly unlikely they’d corroborated their stories. I couldn’t imagine Sammy getting caught. The man was a seasoned expert at evading all law enforcement and hand-picked members of his team were the same.
Who had fucked me over? And what was their endgame?
“Again, my calendar,” I repeated, narrowing my eyes at the shrewd woman in front of me.
“Enough with the cryptic questioning, Agatha.” Weston’s strong voice cut into the stillness of the tomb-like room. “What are we here for? My client is a busy person, and we don’t have all day to play ‘guess the date.’”
If I thought Agent Smith had looked stern before Weston’s consternation, she injected steel into her expression now. Ignoring Weston entirely, she faced me, eyes full of emboldened determination.
“You’ve been specifically named by a victim as a culpable party to a series of violent mercenary-style crimes in the Carlisle area. Power or not, Ms. Lane, the FBI doesn’t take too kindly to mutilation. In the interest of clearing your name, you could give us full access to your computer files—you know, to speed up the process.” Her eyes shone with triumph, as if she’d already caught me in her snare.
I fought to control it, but my entire body stiffened. My firewall was excellent, and after Blackbird’s head had graced my coffee table, I’d deleted all hacking information from my desktop. Blackbird and I had used the dark web to facilitate our conversations and transactions, but nothing ever truly was eliminated online.
I knew with the right people on their side, they would find something incriminating.
Weston shifted in his seat beside me, speaking up on my behalf. “Ms. Lane is in possession of highly sensitive business information that is not intended for the public. Wewill contest the FBI’s unfettered access to her files, based on—”
“Ms. Lane’s business files will remain exempt for now.” Agent Arnold interrupted, finally contributing to the conversation. “All personal files, including laptops and cellphones, however, are fair game should the evidence support their necessity.”
My old cell phone was smashed into tiny shards of lithium and cobalt, the SIM card shredded and destroyed. My laptop was scrubbed “to the nubbins,” according to Lucky, who’d done the work himself. That left my system in the condo building—the same condo I hadn’t returned to in over a week.
“What evidence?” Weston asked, his piercing eyes hardening on the two agents across the table.
“Written testimony and computer files from another source.” Agent Smith's bitter stare washed over me, the contempt rolling off of her in waves. “Stay close, Ms. Lane. We won’t hesitate to come after you.”
