in five minutes. The mayor is trying to shelter himself from Newman, perhaps at the expense of you and the case, with the captain as his yes-man.”
“Okay,” I say, thankful for his help. “But you’re FBI. Can you even be my liaison?”
“Say yes. I’ll make it happen.”
I’m no fool. He’s right on all points. “Then yes. You’re my liaison.”
“Good. I’ll ensure you have an attorney. You need one. And then I’ll start by downloading the security feed we need to take with us while you get dressed.”
I nod and watch him walk out of the bathroom, both relieved and concerned about his involvement. The Poet is obviously watching me and when he does, Wade keeps making sure he sees him. I’m not sure that’s smart, but right now, I need to focus on getting through this interview.
Eager to do that, I hurry into the closet and throw on jeans and a T-shirt along with sneakers. I towel dry my hair and don’t bother with makeup. A boy died tonight. All I care about right now is washing the blood away, and the shower didn’t do the job. I’m not sure anything will.
I’m just reaching for the bag of clothes from the trash to throw out when my phone buzzes with a text from Chuck that reads: Tried to call you over and over. Worried about you. There’s also a link to a news article titled: “The Poet Terrorizes the City.”
It’s official. The Poet gets what he wants. The entire city is waiting for his judgment.
Chapter 73
I slide my phone into my pocket and pick up my gun, walking into the living room to find Wade sitting on the couch, with the computer he installed with the security system in front of him. I suck in a breath meant to calm the sudden apprehension overwhelming me, but it does nothing to calm the drum now pounding inside my chest. My gaze goes to the front door. It was open. The Poet could have deleted that footage.
Desperate to find out if he did and yet terrified at the same time, I hurry forward and sit down next to Wade, setting my gun beside me where it comforts me just by existing.
“Show me,” I order.
He gives me a sideways look, but he doesn’t speak or offer commentary on what he’s seen on the film. Wade’s been doing this job long enough to know we each cope in our own ways. I need to see the film to cope. He understands. Without a word, he rewinds and pushes play. The Poet is standing at my door, all six feet plus of him. I don’t know if I should feel relief or self-hatred. I should have known that boy wasn’t The Poet. Whatever the case, the film is the proof that will set me free and show the investigators how I was tricked, but it won’t bring that little boy back to life.
“What did you think you were going to find?” Wade asks when I finally breathe again.
“My door was open when I got here,” I say.
“You were afraid he deleted the footage,” he assumes.
“Yes, but that was a foolish fear. Of course, he wouldn’t delete the footage.”
“Because he wants us to see the proof that he tricked you. He wants us to believe he’s better than us.”
“Yes,” I agree, “but it’s more than that.” I quote the poem he’d left with Summer:
“Who laugh in the teeth of disaster,
Yet hope through the darkness to find
A road past the stars to a Master.
He wants us to see him as a master while showing us that we are not.”
I say “we,” but in my mind, I hear me. This was about me. He wanted me to see him as a master. This has become about me.
Chapter 74
There is nothing more suffocating than becoming the interrogated when you are normally the interrogator. Nothing like sitting in a cold box of a room with a two-way mirror and cameras, while who-knows-who watches you. I’m alone in that room, pacing to keep from picturing that poor boy’s face, when my union-appointed attorney, a pretty woman with long dark hair, walks into the room.
“Nicole Richmond,” she announces, shutting the door behind her. “I’m your attorney, here to shut down their bullshit.” Even in her two a.m. outfit of jeans and a T-shirt, she owns a take-no-prisoners attitude, and I like it. “They shouldn’t even be interviewing you tonight and they know it. They also know I think it’s bullshit.”
Oh yes, I