Page 189 of Broken Pieces
Chapter Thirty-Three
Skylar
Thehardvinylbenchclings to the backs of my thighs. My cheek’s pressed against something solid and warm, and for a second, I can’t figure out what it is.
Then I catch the smell. Grease and I know.
Rainer.
His shirt smells like the workshop he’s spent most of his life working in. It’s grounding, holding me there for a moment when everything else keeps trying to rip me out of my skin.
I shift a little, my neck screaming from the angle I slept in, spine cracking one vertebra at a time.
The lights above us buzz like they’re short-circuiting, flickering against the pale green linoleum that covers the floor.
The police station feels sterile in a way that makes me itch. Everything has been wiped clean, but it still stinks of stale coffee and the men who’d rather ask what I was wearing than what Bryce Anders did.
The clock on the wall blinks 4:42 AM. We’ve been here all night.
I peel myself off Rainer’s shoulder slowly.
He doesn’t move. Only sits there, arms folded, stare fixed ahead. That same look on his face he’s had since the second they cuffed Zane.
When I glance up at him, he finally looks down and gives me a slight nod.
“Are you okay?” His voice is rough.
I nod. But I’m the opposite of fucking okay.
“Sorry,” I murmur, voice cracking on the word. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“It’s fine, Skylar. You didn’t miss anything.” His voice is flat, tired. “Bet these assholes are keeping us waiting. Dragging it out because they can.”
After they arrested Zane and took him away, I told Rainer everything.
What those assholes did to me and what they tried to do.
What Zane did to stop it.
Rainer didn’t interrupt. He listened with clenched fists and a locked jaw. And when I got to the part where Zane showed up and everything went red, he closed his eyes and sighed.
And we both knew at that moment that Zane’s fucked.
Rainer leans forward, elbows resting heavily on his knees, shoulders hunched as if the weight of it all is finally settling in.
“He’s not walking away from this, is he?” I ask.
He doesn’t speak right away.
He sits there, staring at the floor, like he’s trying to find the words that will soften the blow.
Then after a long pause he turns his head towards me. “No. Not with who we’re up against.”
Bryan fucking Anders.
Rainer told me about him last night.
Bryce’s father, the smug, polished bastard who shows up in courtrooms with thousand-dollar shoes. A man who drinksscotch with judges, plays golf with cops, and slithers through the system as if it was built to serve him.
