9

This is not right.

Anger had started to bubble inside him, acid eating at his insides. All these cops. All the chaos and worry and tears. As if Tom’s life had been worth something.

He had to hide it, this anger of his. He had responsibilities. People to talk to, decisions to make. Not to mention the monster man detective — Furlow—was about to question him.

This would not be a problem. No detective was going to trip him up.

He watched two cops conferring, his mind spinning back to the day he got out of prison. “Good luck,” a guard had told him as he walked out to freedom. He’d just smiled. Luck? He didn’t need it. He had his superior intelligence — and a purpose. A service to perform.

For the right amount of money, of course.

“Hey!” An officer swaggered over. They all swaggered. Thought they were so powerful. “Detective Furlow wants to see you now.”

“Sure.”

He turned and walked confidently toward his second session with the cops.