Renata
My heart is beating hard, but I don’t know what I’m more scared of.
Drago? The cops?
…Or Kian O’Sullivan?
The sweatshirt isn’t helping my anxiety. It’s Drago’s and it’s thick as hell, so I’m already sweating through it.
The cop is halfway with another hard knock when I open it. His fist almost collides with my face, and as it does, his expression twists from impatience to shock in two seconds flat. But he recovers pretty fast.
I take a good look at him. He’s an older man with a bunch of laugh lines around his eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard. There’s another cop standing behind him. This one’s younger, a little too blonde and a little too cheery as he looks me up and down.
“Ma’am,” the older cop says by way of greeting, dipping his head down a little. “Sorry about the noise.”
“No, no, I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I was in the kitchen cooking and I just got distracted.”
“She’s in a world of her own when she cooks. You could burn the house down and she wouldn’t even notice.” I stiffen instantly when Kian walks up behind me and starts talking so casually.
I’d expected him to go hide. Especially with the gash over his eye from where I sliced him with the knife. But far from hiding, he’s out here in the open, brazenly chatting with the cops like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
He’s balled up the torn fabric of my t-shirt and he’s holding it against the cut on his eyebrow. And still, he offers up his free hand to the older cop with a smile that makes him look like he’s ten years younger.
They shake hands and I watch the surreal exchange. Surely this isn’t happening. I must be dreaming. This isn’t Kian fucking O’Sullivan in my house, shaking hands with cops and chuckling about cooking.
“That’s a nasty injury,” the officer observes.
Kian sighs like he’s embarrassed. “My fault. A foul ball caught the dirt wrong… I should have been paying better attention.”
“Baseball player?”
Kian nods. “It’s time for me to turn in my glove, though. I’m getting too old for the sport.”
The older officer looks at Kian curiously. “And you are…?”
“Jonathan O’Malley,” he says smoothly. “This is my wife, Courtney.”
I nearly bug out at those words. His fucking what?
“I’m Officer Ruben Sanchez,” the older cop introduces. He looks somewhat placated since we opened the door, but I do notice some suspicion lingering in his kind brown eyes. “This is my partner, Duncan Briggs. We’re responding to a distress call from this address.”
Kian’s expression twists into shock. There’s a little alarm thrown in for good measure.
He’s good. Really fucking good.
“A distress call…?” he repeats, before glancing down towards me as though I have the explanation. “Honey, do you know what these gentleman are talking about?”
There are two ways I can play this. I can call Kian’s bluff and out him in front of the cops—or I can take him at his word and play along.
If I choose the former option, I’m running the risk of Kian killing not just me, but the two innocent men at my door along with me. There’s also the matter of the fact that my brother is bleeding out on the other side of the kitchen wall—and I’m the one who stabbed him. Best case scenario, I end up in jail.
The decision is split second, and I commit to it as I turn to both cops.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” I say, marveling at how calm and convincing my voice sounds. “I do know that sometimes our line gets crossed with other houses in the area.”
“It is a congested area,” Sanchez muses. “And the phone companies these days…”
“Very congested,” Kian says with a nod. “We’re thinking of moving soon, actually. The commute to work is a killer.”