Page 54 of Rogue Mission
Pressing my ear to the metal barrier, I close my eyes and strain to pick up something…anything. But when I do, I wish I hadn’t heard.
Two words hit me like the defibrillator did back in that stairwell, their effect knocking me backwards.
“Premeditated murder?” I whisper, grasping my pumping chest.
Stumbling toward the chair, I barely manage to throw myself into it before I fall face first onto the concrete.
Murder.
Who?
A wave of tears claws up my throat, so achy and thick, it becomes impossible to get air inside.
How am I going to get out of here? I need to be out there helping the team look for Justice.
If the team isn’t in some cell as well. There’s no one for me to call.
I’m back in the cold metal seat, staring at the two-way glass when a single knock thuds on the door. The handle slowly turns, causing a wave of dread to rush over me, pinning me to the seat like I’ve been tied down.
This is it.
The shadow that fills the door is huge and my imagination goes wild in the worst way.
Terminator.
Swallowing becomes impossible. Thinking is a thing of the past when a light-haired man in a suit steps inside.
Immediately I’m put off by his appearance.
His eyes are…dead. Blue, milky, and emotionless.
Maybe Terminator eyes would have been better. My stomach curls into a knot under his cold inspection.
“I’m Detective Pacer.”
“Hello.”
A mouse would have a stronger voice.
It’s a wonder I can speak at all—the breath sawing in and out through my nose feels like razor blades. Dipped in acid.
“Here.” The detective places a tub of cleaning wipes on the table. The industrial kind. “These will kill anything.”
Me included?
I’m frozen. Not sure whether to take the offering, uncertain about what he’s doing by giving me something I want.
“Your friend is quite the talker,” he says flatly, almost robotically.
“Which friend?” I clip in a strained tone, reluctantly pulling one of the wipes out of the tub. “I have a lot of friends.”
My heavens, when did I become a prolific liar?
“The pretty blonde gal.”
Ah, so not only is he a robot, he’s also a creep. A shiver works its way down my spine, knotting the muscles as I wipe my forehead, then my hands with one of the gross-smelling wipes.
“And?” I ask, trying to limit my responses. Who knows what he’s going to make of anything I say.
