Throne of Truth
And wouldn’t you know? He was there already.
Him.
My nemesis.
His uniform, like always, was iron-creased with starched perfection. His salt and pepper hair cut short on the sides and balding on top. The paunch from too many years spent behind a desk and too much gluttony on the lost dreams of others thickened his middle.
His hands annoyed me.
His face annoyed me.
His entire fucking body pissed me the fuck off.
I stood tall, bracing my legs. “Hello, Arnold.”
His chapped lips opened in undisguised joy. “Ah, hello again, Everett. Fancy seeing you here. This is my lucky day.” He bared his teeth with bipolar emotions. “By the way, it’s chief of police to you.”
“Chief?” I cocked my head condescendingly. “Seems, I owe you congratulations. Last time you fucked me over, you were only a captain.”
He buffed his nails on his shirt, gloating. “Yes, well, I’ve moved up the ranks since then.”
Not good.
Fucking so not good for me.
“So it’s Chief Twig now?” I wrinkled my nose. “No better than Captain Twig, is it? An unfortunate last name you’ve got there, Arnie.”
His face reddened with anger. “You honestly want to piss me off? You know what happened last time, boy.”
“I do remember last time. Quite clearly, in fact.” I smirked. “And I have no doubt being polite or begging for mercy will get me the exact same conclusion as being a fucking bastard. So do your worst.”
I shifted on the spot, spreading my stance. “Oh, and I’m no longer a boy. Then again, keep calling me that if it make’s you feel better, seeing as I could kick your ass back when I was thirteen.”
The other officers stepped forward, one on either side to teach me a lesson in respect.
But Arnold waved them off. He enjoyed breaking me too much to let others do it. “I’ll take it from here, ladies and gentlemen. Good work bringing in this violent repeat offender. Coffee’s on me.”
“Not a problem, Chief.” The officers left, closing the door behind them.
I wished they hadn’t.
If they’d stay for the show, they’d finally learn what a twisted, immoral bastard their captain, now chief, was.
The room turned stagnant with history, slurs, and a past both of us would like to delete.
“Don’t you mean the donuts are on you?” I glared at his waistline. “Put on a few pounds there, Arnie.”
His hands clenched into balls, but he smiled tightly. “Keep being a dick and your rap sheet will just get longer and longer.”
“I don’t need to be a dick for that to happen. By the time I’m out of this place, the protection of a woman from an asshole about to rape her will have morphed into armed robbery, intent to kill, child molesting, and most likely a bank job and grannie murder.” I smiled, even though I felt like tearing the room apart with rage. “Isn’t that right, Arnie?”
He matched my smile, both of us using a normally kind human response to wield emotion filled with contempt and loathing. “You got it, my boy.”
“If you’re going to use a term of endearment, how about you choose a more appropriate one?”
Arnold grinned. “What would you prefer?”
“Oh, I dunno. How about the truth for once? Scapegoat? Fall Guy? Whipping Boy? Any of those work.”
I’m the one you blame and take the rap for others, you lying sack. Might as well own up to it.
His face blackened. “Keep your voice down.”
“Why? So your staff won’t find out what a heartless cunt you are?”
He flinched.
I didn’t stop.
“Five years of my life you stole on three different occasions—all for things I didn’t do. And now, you’re about to steal more. But this time, I’m not gonna be so silent. I have a family now. I’m rich. Charge me with whatever you goddamn like, but rest assured, I won’t have some shitty state-appointed lawyer who’s on your payroll to shuttle me off to the slammer and then be beaten by your men to keep me silent inside.”
I took a step toward him.
It was a balancing act of pushing but not being an idiot. Any one of his officers could shoot me if they thought I was threatening him.
“I’m not afraid of you anymore.” I lowered my voice. “Do your worst. Let’s fucking dance, Arnie. Let’s see who wins this time.”
Chapter Seventeen
Elle
WAS IT WRONG of me that I’d taken Penn’s box?
Was it immoral to sit on my bed after the longest bath in history, biggest dinner I could stomach, countless checks on my father and his heart, and endless cuddles from Sage to open his box of secrets?
For the past three hours, I’d assured Dad I was okay, made sure he was okay, answered his questions, dodged others, and then lamented with him while he directed his red-hot fury at Greg.
Steve called professing apologies, David stood guard at my door—even though I told him that wasn’t necessary—and Sage wouldn’t let me go even to use the bathroom on my own.
She curled up on a towel on the edge of the bath while I soaked away the aches and bruises Greg had given me.
Afterward, she swatted the belt of my Terry cloth robe as I padded warm, tired, and finally alone to my bedroom.
And there was Penn’s box.
Begging me to read its contents.
To pry.
To sneak.
To steal everything I could about him.