Page 56 of Truce: Declan
“I do mind,” Grant says. “I have my family, I’m done. It’s time for us to head home.”
“You can’t leave yet,” Officer Bradley says. “I need to get your statement along with your wife’s.”
“Can’t I? Unless we’re being detained and charged with a crime, you can’t keep us here.” He wraps an arm around Jasmine’s shoulders and forcefully leads her and Zayn out of the police station.
My stomach drops as I realize my mistake, handing the little boy straight back into the arms of his abuser. “I’d like to drop the charges against Noah Reece,” I say, staring at Officer Bradley.
She expels a heavy sigh. “That was a big fuck up tonight,” she mutters, shaking her head in dismay. “Next time you make an accusation, be sure you’re on the right side of it,” she warns me.
Like I don’t already know I screwed up. I’m nauseous and dizzy from the realization that I not only potentially screwed up Noah’s life but the danger I put Zayn into.
“What happens now?” I ask. “You saw the black eye Jasmine had on her face.”
“I need to get social services involved and have them begin an investigation. In the meantime, let me find out about getting the charges dropped and your boyfriend released. Just sit tight.”
Easier said than done. I feel like hell, and I can only imagine Noah hates me after what I’ve done.
FOURTEEN
Noah
I exit the police station, and there’s a wrath of reporters swarming with their cameras out and film rolling.
“Noah, what do you have to say about the child abuse allegations brought on you by your girlfriend?” a reporter asks.
She shoves the microphone into my face, and I take a deep breath, refraining from shoving it up her ass.
This isn’t her fight. She’s just doing her job.
Even if I hate the press and the paparazzi, they spin the version of events into the story that will make sales. It’s never about the truth.
“No comment,” I say, heeding my lawyer’s advice when I called him inside the station after the charges were dropped. I needed to know the next steps to get Zayn away from Grant and back home with me.
It’s a lengthy process, according to him, fighting for custody. And everything I do in front of the cameras can be welded into a good campaign or bad one for their lawyers.
The only satisfaction I get is that Grant will be under the same scrutiny. And he’s bound to slip up.
The cold, brisk air is even chillier when I lay eyes on Charlotte. She’s lurking in the shadows on the sidewalk. Her bottom lip tugged between her teeth as she glances from her cell phone back up to me.
“I’m so sorry, Noah,” she says, stepping toward me under the streetlamp. “I feel sick about the whole thing, if I had known—"
I hold up a hand to stop her. I don’t want to hear her lame excuses. Anger doesn’t even begin to cover the surface for the rage building inside me. And I have no choice but to tame it, given the reporters filming our conversation.
“My son is with that monster because ofyou,” I growl at her. What she did is unforgivable. The cab pulls up just in the nick of time. I don’t think I could stand another second of Charlotte or be in her proximity without screaming at her. “I never want to see you again.”
I yank the back door of the cab open and climb in, giving the driver my lawyer’s address.
I don’t look back at Charlotte. She doesn’t deserve another second of my time. What we had is over.
In the back of the cab, my phone buzzes with a text. I half expect it to be Charlotte with another apology which reminds me I need to block her number, but her phone is broken, so I doubt I’ll hear from her tonight at least.
The message is from Coach.
Malone: My office 9 am.
I grumble and shift uncomfortably in the back of the cab. “You’re that hockey player, aren’t you?” the driver asks. His gaze meets mine in his rearview mirror before he focuses again on the road.
“I am.” I don’t elaborate.
