Maddox

 

The cage sits next to an office, where Officer Richards sits, half-watching the TV and half-watching me. The TV is mounted to the wall with a metal arm and bends around so that Richards can keep one eye on both of us. The cage is empty apart from me and some drunk guy who crashed his car. The drunk man sleeps on one of the benches, snoring loudly. Officer Richards has his office door open, and I can hear the TV. When I hear he’s listening to the news, I stand up and wander to the bars, listening closely.

 

News items roll past, the usual stuff; the world being a black, dark place like my asshole dad taught me when I was a kid. And then I’m gripping the bars of the cage so hard my knuckles turn bone-white, and I growl between clenched teeth.

 

That bitch, I think. That fucking bitch!

 

“Cassandra Caraway and Mason . . . fled . . . missing . . .”

 

“Richards!” I bark.

 

He glances at me and then glances back at the TV.

 

“Richards!” I snarl, my voice deep and booming, but he ignores me.

 

I pace up and down the cell, truly feeling how small it is for the first time. The police have it wrong. They think Cassandra and Mason are lovers-in-arms, lovers who’ve fled together. They probably think that the two of them are planning to go abroad with their money, are trying to flee justice. They wouldn’t guess that Cassandra has most likely stuffed Mason in the trunk of a car somewhere and is out there hunting.

 

Hunting Eden, I think, and my pacing gets quicker, more frantic. Hunting Eden, hunting my Eden!

 

I think of Cassandra standing over Eden, a bloody knife in her hand, and Eden falling back clutching a gash in her neck. I think of her sputtering her last words, “Why didn’t you save me?” And I think of Cassandra laughing her psychopath’s laugh as Eden, my goddamn woman, dies in front of her. She’d do it, too. I know she would. I lead men who are capable of grim, dark acts, and Cassandra has the same glint in her eyes I often see in Knives’. The same murderous glint.

 

I grab the bars again. “Richards! I need to fucking speak to you!”

 

Richards shakes his head and turns back to the TV.

 

Goddamn cops, I think, pacing, pacing.

 

But she’ll be okay wherever she is, won’t she? Nobody knows where that is, not even me. Cassandra will check out Eden’s apartment, the club, my apartment, maybe even this police station. I think of Mason, the stupid old fool, who thought that Cassandra wanted him, who thought that she loved him. Cassandra played her part well, played it perfectly. The naïve young woman, desperate to get in with the billionaire, and Mason ate it right up because men like him are all too quick to believe that women really want them.

 

“Richards!” I bark, but the ginger fuck keeps ignoring me. “Richards! Richards! Richards!”

 

But he doesn’t look at me again, just focuses on the TV, pretending I’m not here.

 

Anger rises in me. It’s the anger I felt when I saw Dad threatened that woman, the anger of feeling completely powerless. Here I am, stuck in a cage, and Cassandra is out there somewhere, plotting something deadly. But she doesn’t know where Eden is! That’s something, isn’t it!

 

“Richards!”

 

Richards’ eyes stay firmly trained on the TV, like I’m not here, like I’m not shouting, like I’m a goddamn ghost.

 

I can’t risk it, I think. I just can’t. If there’s even a one percent chance Cassandra will find Eden, I have to take it as an absolute certainty. Because one percent is enough for a woman like Cassandra, a woman who would run naked into the winter air and steal my motorbike. One percent is too much for a woman like that.

 

I need to get out of here. It isn’t ideal. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. The police were supposed to arrest Cassandra and Mason the day the evidence was released. That was my plan. But I should’ve accounted for the police not doing their job properly. After all, the police not doing their job properly is what allows The Miseryed to exist. I underestimated Cassandra.

 

I go to the bars again. My entire body is shaking, my clenched fists trembling, my chest thumping, my legs tingling. I feel like a lion must feel before fighting for a lioness, adrenalin coursing through me, gathering strength for a fight, gathering strength for a battle.

 

“Richards, I’m not fucking around!” I shout.

 

He shakes his head.

 

Fine, I think. Fucking fine.

 

I go to the drunk man, who’s on his side, arm propped under his head. He’s muscular and fat, that combination of fat-padded muscle that makes a person look massive, like Markus. His hair is brown and matted with sweat to his head. His face is like a bulldog’s, all squashed up. He wears a tank top and jeans; his arms are covered with tribal tattoos.

 

I reach down and shake him by the arm, hard, until he opens his eyes and stares up at me.

 

“What the fuck?” he growls. “The hell do you think you’re doing?”

 

“Just thinking about the time I fucked your mom,” I grin. “She was damn bouncy for an older lady.”

 

“What the fuck?”

 

The man leaps to his feet and charges at me, ducking low like a football player. He wraps his arms around my waist and shoves me toward the bars. I let him push me until we’re almost at the bars, and then I swing with all my strength. The man yelps and spins around, and then his ass smacks into the metal. I elbow him in the back, and with a grunt he releases me. And then I step back, fists raised, watching as he sways to an upright position.

 

Then Officer Richards is between us. One moment the big man’s about to charge, the next Officer Richards has his gun trained on me, and then the big man. He waves it between us.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” Richards pants, squinting at me.

 

“I need to talk with you,” I say, holding my hands above my head. “Is that so much to ask?”