Authors: Melody Johnson
“Then stop arguing and let me help.”
Walker bared his teeth on a grimace. “You are not—”
“Is everything all right over there, Walker?”
Walker turned at the voice. An officer had ducked under the police tape and was striding toward us from the scene. As he came closer, I realized he wasn’t an officer. He was an agent.
Walker leaned down to whisper in my ear. “Get out of here, and stay with Ronnie while I’m gone. I might not be home tonight, and she can’t protect the house by herself.” We locked eyes. “Go.”
I peeked over his shoulder at the agent behind him. He reminded me a little of Officer Harroway: block-jawed and stony-faced. He was a burly man’s man, but when Officer Harroway opened his mouth, the only thing that man took seriously was how deeply he could crawl under my skin. This agent wore a Kevlar vest, like Walker sometimes wore on a mission, but unlike Walker, “F.B.I.” was emblazoned on his chest in white block letters. I didn’t want to find out what that man had to say when he opened his mouth any more than I did when Harroway opened his. Despite my misgivings about running while innocent, I listened to Walker, turned on my heel, and left.
Not two minutes later, Ronnie, Keagan, and I drove into a road block. Three police cars and one SUV formed a barrier across the dirt road.
“I guess your conversation with Ian was worse than you thought,” Ronnie commented.
“Are they going to interrogate me about my brothers?” Keagan asked. His voice was monotone and had been ever since we’d pulled him from class.
Ronnie shook her head. “They’re probably here for me. The scene’s at my house, after all.”
“No, they’re here for me,” I admitted.
Ronnie looked askance at me. “You? What do they want with you?”
“The FBI think I’m involved in the murders.”
“The FBI?”
“Then why the hell didn’t you drive faster?” Keagan asked, his monotone voice somehow still expressing his annoyance.
“Language,” Ronnie admonished.
I rolled my eyes. Of all the times to admonish. “Speeding away would only look guilty.” I turned to Ronnie. “Drive straight home with Keagan. If Walker’s not home by six o’clock, lock yourself and Keagan in the fallout shelter.”
“But you’ll be home before sundown, right?”
I turned to Keagan. “Take care of each other and don’t be a hero. Be safe. Got it?”
Keagan nodded. “Got it.”
Someone pounded on the passenger-side door and all three of us jumped. Ronnie squeaked.
The block-jawed agent who reminded me of Officer Harroway was standing outside Ronnie’s passenger side window. She lowered the window and blinked at him.
I leaned forward to see him around Ronnie. “Can we help you, sir?”
The man ignored me. “Veronica Anne Carmichael?”
Ronnie nodded. “Yes?”
“I’m going to need you to come with me.”
Ronnie looked at me and then back at the man. “Me?”
“There must be some mistake,” I said. “I—”
He locked eyes on me. “Cassidy Lee DiRocco?”
“Yes. But I don’t think you need—”
“And Logan Keagan McDunnell?”
Keagan raised his hand. “Present.”
“I’m going to need all three of you to come with me.”
Ronnie looked at me and raised her eyebrows.
I sighed. It wasn’t the first time I was wrong, and by the steely look in the block-jawed agent’s eyes, I wasn’t taking any bets that it would be the last.
Officer Riley Montgomery was a methodical man. After sitting across from him for the last four hours in the Erin Police Department’s interrogation room—alternately answering a barrage of pointed questions, correcting his allegations about my involvement in the murders, and listening to him ramble about my future incarceration—I learned three undisputable truths: Officer Montgomery was in love with Alba Dunbar and had been likely since birth, he unquestionably believed that I was in some fashion directly involved with the murders, and he was determined to expose me to solve this case. Maybe he thought exposing me would endear him to Alba, and once he solved the case and gave her a sense of retribution for her parents’ deaths, she’d ride off with him into the sunset. But he didn’t know what prowled the night after sunset. I did, and I was not going to sit through another hour of interrogation, answering the same questions and fending off the same allegations, until dark.
Officer Montgomery was in the middle of a rant, being deliberately raunchy while describing the many uses inmates have for cleaning supplies—brooms and mop handles in particular—when I interrupted him.
“I don’t need to listen to this bullshit. Up until this moment I’ve been accommodating and cooperative for you, your department, and this case. I came here willingly. I’ve answered your questions to the best of my abilities, and I’ve provided you with information that will hopefully help you find Colin and further this case. I’ve always maintained good relationships with the police, but unless you plan to charge me here and now, I’m done.”
The door suddenly opened, and the block-jawed FBI agent reminiscent of Officer Harroway walked into the interrogation room. He looked at Officer Montgomery and jerked his head toward the door, dismissing him.
Officer Montgomery flushed a deep red. “She might be done here, but I’m not. I—”
“Cassidy DiRocco is not under arrest, so she can leave whenever she wants. Before she leaves, however, I’d like a quick word with her.” He looked at me. “If you don’t mind.”
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. “I was wondering if you’d make an appearance. Does the FBI always allow local law enforcement to interrogate their suspects?” I asked congenially.
Something flashed in the agent’s aquamarine eyes. Humor, I think, but then it passed and his expression never faltered. “Never. You’re not a suspect.”
“She is the only—”
“Out,” the agent said. His didn’t shout, but his voice reverberated with power and command, like Dominic’s voice could carry physical weight in his words, except Dominic’s words were powerful from a blood-bond formed with his coven. The weight in the FBI agent’s words were simply from experience and confidence. Whatever the reason behind the power, the agent’s words were just as effective as Dominic’s. Officer Montgomery closed his mouth and walked out.
I turned my attention to the man now sitting across from me. The FBI agent was handsome, devastatingly handsome with his clean-shaven, chiseled jaw, bright aquamarine eyes, and sharp features. Like Officer Harroway, he had that burliness that reminded me of ham-fisted lumberjacks, and nothing was sexier than a lumberjack in uniform. Harroway always ruined the illusion the moment he opened his mouth and cracked a joke at my expense. From the looks of him, however, this man hadn’t cracked a joke in years.
I smiled. “Cassidy DiRocco,” I said, and I held out my hand, “But you already knew that.”
The agent took my hand in a brief, firm grip and shook. “I’m Harold Rowens, an Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Maybe I’d been in the same room without fresh air for too long, or maybe Officer Montgomery had rattled me more than I’d ever admit, but I couldn’t help it. What were the chances that the man’s name who resembled Officer Harroway was Harold Rowens? Even their names were similar. I giggled.
Rowens cocked his head. “Is something about this situation amusing, Ms. DiRocco?”
I turned my laugh into a cough and sobered. “Not at all. You remind me of a friend I have in the NYPD. Officer Harroway.” I shook my head. “In physical appearance and name alone, I assure you,” I added in case he was somehow familiar with Harroway. I wouldn’t want to insult the man.
“Officer Harroway.” Rowens opened one of the files he’d brought with him and rustled through a few papers. “You took a bullet for him while on a stakeout with him and Officer Wahl for the Mars Killington drug trafficking case five years ago.”
“You’ve done your homework. But it’s Detective Wahl now.”
Rowens nodded. “Yes, I see that. I also see that you quote her in the majority of your articles pertaining to drug trafficking, gang related crime, and murders.”
“Those are the nature of her investigations, and considering she’s the lead detective of those investigations, you’re damn right I quote her,” I said.
“No one else quotes her.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Is that a question?”
“Your shared history encourages Detective Wahl to give you statements that she doesn’t feel inclined to give other reporters, is that right?”
“I don’t know, and I can’t speak for her. That’s something you’ll have to discuss with Detective Wahl yourself.”
“I have.” Rowens put down the papers. “But she declined to answer. Do you want to know what I think, Ms. DiRocco?”
“I’ve got a feeling you’re about to tell me whether I want to
know or not.”
“I think that your shared history would encourage Detective Wahl to do a lot more than give you exclusive statements for your articles. I think she knows that
you
know more about Lydia Bowser, John and Priscilla Dunbar, William and Douglas McDunnell, and all the other similar murders in the city than you’ve admitted to knowing.”
“I have nothing to do with those murders. I went through each alibi with Officer Montgomery for the better part of three hours. Tell me I didn’t stay here for reruns.” I stared at him. Hard. “If that’s the case, like I said, I’m done here.”
“Your alibis check out, and like
I
said, you’re not a suspect. But that doesn’t mean that you don’t have more information about this case than you’re letting on.”
“I did have information about this case, and hopefully, your team is using that information as we speak to find Colin.”
“I’m not denying that you’ve been helpful and cooperative, but you haven’t divulged everything you know. When I find out what you know, it could go one of two ways: I find out now, in which case you continue to help this investigation, or I found out later, in which case you and Detective Greta Wahl will be charged with obstruction of justice.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I spat. “I’m not obstructing anything! You’ve said so yourself that I’ve helped further this investigation!”
“I think you’re helping to hide what you
really
know. I think Detective Wahl knows that you know something big, but she wouldn’t point the finger at you even if every finger was pointed at her. When I take you down, she’s going down, too.”
“Greta and I are trying to solve this case, just like you. We’re on the same side, and the more time you waste on us, the less time you have pursuing real leads.”
Rowens leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “It’s up to you. When will you tell me what you know: now or later?”
Vampires are responsible for these murders,
I thought. I didn’t know that for sure, but even if I did, he wouldn’t believe me. What else could be responsible for ripping out human hearts? “There’s nothing to tell. I don’t know anything about this case.”
“That’s impossible.”
I rolled my eyes. He hadn’t even spotted the tip of the iceberg of what was and wasn’t possible. “Why is my ignorance about this case impossible?”
“Because you are the linking factor in every scene here in Erin, and I have no doubt that when we deepen this investigation, you will be the linking factor in every scene in New York City.”
I blinked. “What?”
He tossed a manila folder across the table at me. “Your prints on a can of spray at Lydia Bowser’s murder.” He tossed another manila folder across the table. “Several locks of your hair at the Dunbar murder.” He tossed a third folder, and they landed in a fan of damning evidence in front of me. “And your blood at the McDunnell murder.”
I shook my head, stunned. They’d processed the evidence faster than I’d expected in a small town. I suppose the FBI had ways of expediting the process. I tapped my pointer finger on the first folder. “This doesn’t prove anything except that I was present at these specific places at one time before the murders. Walker and the medical examiner were present at the Bowser scene, too. That doesn’t mean that they committed these murders, and it doesn’t mean that I did, either.”
“No, it doesn’t, and I don’t think that you did. But I
do
think that you know more than you’re admitting. The victims range in age, gender, race, and social standing. Nothing about them or the locations where they were murdered is a common thread tying this case together,” Rowens stared at me this time. Hard, like I’d stared at him. “Except you.”
“You have nothing on this case, and you’re grasping at straws to solve it.” I stood. “This conversation is over.”
“I’m going to find out how you fit into this puzzle, and when I do, Greta won’t be there to cushion the fall. She’ll be falling right beside you.”
“Threats don’t scare me when there’s nothing to support them,” I said, but my hand was cold and shaking when I grasped the door’s handle. “Goodbye, Agent Rowens.”
“Just remember, Ms. DiRocco. You still have a chance to come clean if you talk now. Talk later, and you’ll have a bed of your own making to keep you warm at night, and as Officer Montgomery so eloquently described, you won’t be the only one lying in it.”
I slammed the door on my way out.
* * * *
Ronnie, Keagan, and I turned into Walker’s driveway just as the sun started its descent. We were cutting it closer than I liked, considering that Bex didn’t need the full cover of night to leave her coven, but my final conversation with Agent Rowens had rattled me more in ten minutes than the entire four hours I’d been harassed by Officer Montgomery.
Rowens didn’t mince words and the few he’d uttered rung with a resonating certainty. Unless the real murderer or a real lead was found soon, Greta and I would be the scapegoats for this case. Just as Dominic had predicted, her loyalty to me had put her in danger, albiet not the danger I had anticipated.
I would have answered Agent Rowens’ questions to protect us if I could, but Dominic and Bex wouldn’t allow him or anyone he told to live with the knowledge of their existence. To protect the people I knew and loved, I kept the truth to myself. If I wanted to survive in both worlds—bridged between the humans and vampires—I needed to find evidence of my own to prove my innocence without exposing the vampires. And I needed to find that evidence before the humans found more evidence connecting me to the murders.