| |
Interrogation
The men’s whispered mumbles were hard to decipher, the black hood muting their hushed tones, although I suspected they were intentionally keeping me out of the loop. Gritting my teeth, I waited, knowing someone had to say something soon, though as the delay lingered, I considered if the torturous silence was all part of the sick game.
“Remove it.”
A different tone gave the order. Just as curt as the others and yet more suave somehow, as though its owner was used to giving commands. Mentally, I imagined the kind of man who might speak with such a posh and polished tone. If it was possible, my anxiety amplified another tenfold as an unknown person finally whipped away my hood.
I blinked into the bright light. The abrupt illumination would have been stark even without the comparison of my blackened hood, but with it, the contrast was blinding. It took a couple of moments for my eyes to adjust, and scanning the gray room, my heart sank. Everything about the dull cubicle spoke of interrogation, from its military-colored interior to the one mirrored wall which was clearly a lens for people on the other side to peer in and listen to our conversation.
Shit.
Nothing uplifting would happen there. My throat dried as I turned and caught sight of the muscular thug in the corner, his leer growing as we made eye contact.
This wasn’t a room. It was a cell.
“Emelia.”
My heart raced as I spun back to the man sitting across the silver table from me. It looked like the sort of surface I’d seen in prison dramas. I’d barely noticed the person beyond it until he’d spoken, but once my gaze settled on his face, it only took a few seconds for me to recognize him.
Ryan Wilson.
His identity was in no doubt. Nathanial had shown me various images of the country’s so-called leader in the last day, and the man opposite me was definitely him.
A deluge of emotions washed over me. Fright, anxiety, and shock merging as I realized who he was and what he’d done to me. He was the man who, with the support of my own husband, had drugged and traumatized me. The ordeal had, it seemed, been so bad that I’d pushed it down, forgetting the distress until recent events had triggered the awful recollections.
“It’s good to see you.”
Good to see me?
Was he fucking joking? If Wilson was the reason we’d been dragged there and treated like prisoners, then he had a lot to answer for. But then, I knew that already.
“Have we met?” My glare drilled into him as my anger mounted.
Naturally, I knew full well that the bastard had not only met me but taken full advantage of me. Stomach-churningly, Nathanial had alluded to a video of that sorry night. There was evidence of the abuse.
“Charming.” Wilson smirked. “I’m sure you remember the night we shared. Sam was there as well.”
“I’m not with Sam anymore.” I left it at that, certain Wilson knew my part in the monster’s demise but not prepared to confess my deeds in that grim jail cell.
“Yes, I heard about that.” He pressed his lips together, though I noticed the way they twitched as though there was something amusing about all this. “What a shame. Sam was a good guy.”
A good guy?
Wilson’s obituary resounded in my ears. Sam was the literal opposite of anything good. He’d tormented and gas-lit me and Laurel for years. If this was the level of shrewd perception demonstrated by the prime minister, then God help the country. More likely, he’d known exactly who Sam had been and had supported him, regardless.
“What was your relationship with Sam?” I leaned forward. “He never talked about you.”
“Not surprising.” Wilson rolled his eyes. “I was only paying the bills.”
“The bills?” Bewilderment reverberated in my voice. “What do you mean? Sam worked to pay the bills. He—”
“Sam never worked a day in his fucking life!” Wilson’s bellow cut me off. “That lazy sod insisted I pay him an allowance every month in exchange for his friendship and loyalty. He could be useful when I needed certain sorts of...” He hesitated, as though he was searching for the right word. “Help.”
“What?” None of this made sense. “He went to work every day...” I glanced into the corner, remembering the time he left and how anxious I used to be when his return was imminent.
“He left the house every day,” Wilson corrected. “And came to play with his chums in London. There were always women and cocaine for him here.”
I closed my eyes. If Wilson was telling the truth, then just about everything I’d thought I’d known about my husband was a lie. The only credit I’d been able to give him was that he’d worked hard to give us a roof over our heads and food on the table, but apparently, even that wasn’t true. Sam wasn’t a hard-working man, and he hadn’t provided for us.
“Of course, he asked for extra when he shared you with me.” Wilson snorted. “And he never let me forget the gesture either. Sam was involved in the top echelons of my government from the very start.”
My blood ran cold at his explanation. I wasn’t a ‘gesture’. I was a fucking woman with feelings and a life. The idea that the man who’d beaten and humiliated me had his fingers in the pie of government was sickening, yet on some level, it made sense. He was always so keen that I didn’t know anything about political news, and I’d always assumed it was another symptom of power and control, but what if it had been more?
Maybe there was something in Wilson’s argument. Perhaps Sam had worked with devils like Wilson all along, taking his money and keeping me in the dark.
It was twisted and insane—just like Sam.
What was wrong with these men?
“Why am I here?” I’d heard enough about ‘old times’. “Am I being arrested, because nobody has read me my rights?”
Rolling my neck, I wished I could be more comfortable. I was desperate to be free of the metal bracelets at my wrists. My shoulders ached at the position they forced my arms into and there was no respite in sight.
“You’re not arrested.” He leaned back in his chair and lifted his arms behind his head. No doubt the exhibition was designed to emphasize his freedom while I remained cuffed. It was just Wilson’s style. “I only want to talk to you.”
“And my daughter?” I spat the words, more than aware that the disgusting man sitting in front of me could well be her biological father. Examining his features, I mentally compared them to Laurel’s, though I was undecided about their similarities. “Why is she also cuffed somewhere in this unknown place?”
“Is she?” His brow rose as though Laurel’s presence was news to him, but I didn’t believe him for a second. He must have ordered our arrival there. There was no way he wouldn’t know who’d been collected and currently waited in illegal custody. “How old is she now?”
“You didn’t answer my question, Prime Minister.” Avoiding his question, I fired my response back. My days of playing games with men like Wilson were over.
“That’s true.” He smiled, nodding as he replied. “I understand you’re worried about your daughter. I’ll make sure she’s free of the cuffs and brought to you here.”
“Thank you.” I hadn’t been expecting his acquiescence and I didn’t trust it. “I’d like to know she’s okay.”
“Of course.” He waved a hand at the moron behind me, beckoning the thug forward.
I watched as the brute came running like a puppy, still trying to decide exactly who or what organization he worked for. What group was authorized to round up people from their beds and bring them to heel like this? Or maybe he just worked for Wilson directly. Either way, he was nothing more than paid muscle.
“Bring Emelia’s daughter here.” Wilson didn’t meet the goon’s expectant eyes, his slimy gaze never leaving me as he went on. “Her mother misses her.”
“Yes, Prime Minister.” The hoodlum glanced back at me.
“And be gentle,” Wilson added. “She’s only a girl.”
The obedient idiot nodded. “Shall I get someone in here to replace me, sir?”
“No need.” Wilson shook his head. “I’m sure Emelia doesn’t mean to do me any harm, do you, Emelia?”
His smile widened as both men stared at me. I inhaled, meeting Wilson’s gaze and yet steadfastly refusing to say anything of the sort. If my hands were freed, I could imagine a considerable amount of harm I’d be happy to inflict.
“Well, I’m sure we’ll be all right.” Wilson chuckled. “She’s still cuffed.”
“Yes, Prime Minister.” The idiot laughed, turning to look at me again before he strode out of the room.
“And then there were two.” My mind darted back briefly to the incredible novel by Agatha Christie whose title was eerily similar to my assertion. The end of that story saw everyone die, and I wondered if Wilson had read the book and cottoned on to the fact. Would they have included Christie on the reading list at the no doubt expensive school he’d attended?
“Indeed.” Wilson sighed, seemingly edgier now we were alone. “Let me share with you why I invited you here.”
Invited me? I wanted to snort at his ridiculous choice of vocabulary. What a prick.
As my attention crawled over his face, I recalled glimpses of the night he’d attacked me, flashes of disturbing imagery that made me have to glance away. He’d done things to me then that no one else had ever done—not even Sam. I couldn’t believe I’d managed to bury his crimes for so long.
“Say what you have to say.” Inhaling, I compelled myself to meet his smug expression, ignoring my rising nausea. “I’m listening.”
“Yes, it does rather seem I have a captive audience.” He sniggered, peering around as if the rest of the Old Boy’s Network was there to congratulate his pun. Sadly for him, it was only the two of us, and his twisted humor was lost on me.
“Very droll.” I hoped my narrowed gaze conveyed the disdain I was feeling. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it.”
I’d originally thought to implore him to release my cuffs. My shoulders were screaming with pain, but the dignity I’d clawed back since Sam refused to allow the words. I’d rather suffer than beg a cretin like Wilson.
“Fine.” He placed his forearms on the desk and leaned toward me. “I know exactly what you’ve been up to, Emelia.”