Chapter 28

The interrogation room is freezing cold, likely to make suspects talk. Same reasoning behind the uncomfortable chair, the plain table in front of me, and the cuffs locking me in place.

My internal clock says I’ve been here for less than an hour, but staring at my own reflection and wondering who’s on the other side of the one-way mirror is making time stand still.

What the hell happened at the bakery?

One second, we were all thankful to have gotten out, blessedly breathing fresh air and watching as the bakery burned. I’d been so glad no one was hurt because it’d been a full house in there. The next minute, some guy is throwing punches and a cop’s going Full Metal Jacket, trying to bring me in without reason.

Resisting arrest probably wasn’t my best move, but something felt off and I was worried about leaving Charlotte.

Charlotte. Her face when she saw the phone.

She was arguing for me, standing up for her man like the badass I know she can be, but something on that screen broke her. Her face had gone pale, well, paler than her usual, and her eyes were shocked and angry.

I don’t know what she could’ve seen. Or where that phone came from. Was it hers? If so, I’d never seen it before, but maybe she has a backup from Thomas?

My mind is swirling, questions layering on top of one another as I try to dissect and consider each one carefully and methodically. I’m still trying to figure it out when the door opens.

An older man, grey-haired with a paunch belly, comes in, shutting the door behind him. He sits down across from me, a gentle smile on his face that makes the thick mustache over his top lip wiggle at the ends. “I’m Frank Harris. Wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“Lance Jacobs. I have a few questions of my own too,” I reply, keeping myself steady. If he thinks his little act so far has me intimidated, he’s got another thing coming.

Jonathan warned me about the police, and I’m not going to play this like some greenback. I’ve handled interrogations myself, and this Harris guy won’t be resorting to waterboarding to get his answers, which bodes well for me. I’m leaving this room with more information than I give, that’s for damn sure.

“Hmmm . . . your information says Navy. Do we need to call the Pentagon?”

He shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but he’s just trying to get under my skin and we both know it.

“Currently on terminal leave, but I can give you my old CO’s name, sir. Should I call you ‘sir’? I’m afraid I didn’t catch your role here at the Roseboro Police Department.” I look around the interrogation room like I’m evaluating it for a Yelp review.

His mustache twitches, then he inclines his head. “Chief Harris, at your service.”

What the fuck is the Chief of Police doing interrogating me? First off, there’s no reason for them to hold me, but his presence hints at something much larger. Chiefs don’t get involved for a swing at a cop, even in Mayberry.

Needing more information, I hedge my bets. “Nice to meet you, Chief Harris. Though I do wish it were under better circumstances.”

He shrugs, opening a file on the table between us and pretending to read it. I can tell he’s faking. His eyes aren’t focused. So, this is a show, but for what? Or maybe more importantly, who?

“Says here you were behaving suspiciously at the fire over at Cake Culture today. That true?” he says casually.

“No.” It’s the only answer I need to give because it’s the truth.

He grunts. “Why don’t you tell me about today.” It’s an order, not a question.

“It was a busy day at the bakery, so we were all out front, serving customers, when there was a loud boom in the kitchen. We went to the back, I tried to put it out with the fire extinguisher, but it got too big, too fast. We had to get out. Outside, a guy got physical and I defended myself. An officer was asking the same questions you are now. Then he said we needed to come in to the station—”

“And that was Officer Vaughn?” he interrupts to clarify.

I nod. “Yeah, Officer Vaughn wanted us to come in. I told him to bring everyone else down and I’d be here shortly. He didn’t like that, became aggressive, and next thing I know, I’m here and everyone else was dismissed without further question. Are they okay?” There’s something going on here, but I need to at least know if everyone else is fine after the fire.

“As far as I know,” he says, a gleam in his eye. “Though I haven’t seen Miss Dunn yet.”

He’s trying to make me worry about Charlotte, but why? Is it a tactic to get me to talk, hoping to get back to her? Not going to happen. I don’t trust this guy. He may be the boss around here, but he reads slimy to me.

“So, you didn’t want to come with Vaughn. Where were you planning to go?” Harris asks slyly.

Thank God for my training. There’s a time to be emotionless, and a time to lose it . . . coolly. This is one of those times, and I spit out, “To my parent’s, to a friend’s, to take a shit . . . it doesn’t matter. He had no right to detain me, and you have no right to hold me.”

Harris’s good-old-boy act disappears. “I may not be able to charge you with burning that bakery down just yet, boy. But I’ve got a guy out there talking about pressing charges for you doing some body slam move, a serious accusation with your being a trained killer and all. And an officer with a helluva shiner, so yes, assaulting a police officer is the charge right now. See what your CO thinks about that.”

If it was just the bakery misunderstanding, I’d get up and waltz out of here. But the officer assault is a serious accusation, one I’m not sure isn’t true. I don’t remember hitting Vaughn when we tussled, but I wouldn’t swear to that in a court of law.

“In that case . . . lawyer.”

Chief Harris turns a mottled shade of red and knocks on the mirror two times. An answering single knock must communicate something to him, or at least he acts like it does. “Your family has been notified and my guess is they’ll have your lawyer running up here to save your entitled ass any minute now.”

I dip my chin, not speaking.

“Got a little story to tell you. Now, you don’t talk.” He points a thick finger at me in warning. “Just wait on that lawyer, but you can listen, right?”

He waits for me to answer, but I just glare at him.

After a moment, he continues.

“Once upon a time, there was a guy called Prince Charming, and you’d think he’d be the hero of the story, but no. Instead, he went into the kitchen of the local bake shop and waited until he was alone. Now, everyone thought he was just baking some cupcakes or something, but he wasn’t. No, our not-hero was tinkering with the ovens, opening the gas intake too much until BOOM!”

I grit my teeth, needing to refute these accusations, but I know he’s baiting me. So as hard as it is, I just keep my mouth shut.

He smirks, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “This Prince tries to make his getaway. But he gets caught and his web of deceit is discovered by everyone. He’s arrested, goes to trial, and ends up spending the next twenty years of his life in prison.”

He eyes me, gauging my reaction to his story and the threatening ending. But I give him nothing.

He tries a few more times, saying variations of the same accusations to see if I’ll flinch, but I’m stone-cold against his onslaught.

In my mind, I’m still trying to piece things together. I don’t believe for a minute that the oven blowing up was an accident, and the obvious person to do something like that is Blackwell.

But what does he stand to gain from destroying a bakery? From hurting Charlotte?

From what Jonathan has told me, Blackwell is escalating, getting grander and more complex in his elaborate plans. And this seems small, comparatively, even though it’s everything to Charlotte. And she’s everything to me.

Unless . . .

It’s not about the bakery or Charlotte. It’s a power move, a play that directs the next few steps. But how is he funneling this to get at Thomas, because he’s most definitely the end game?

Harris is getting frustrated with his lack of progress and my lack of attention. “Are you listening to me?” he barks.

I refocus my eyes on him, cold and collected to his mad fury. “Law-yer.”

He growls, pushing the table toward me as he lumbers up. He grabs my upper arm, strongly encouraging me to stand. “You want to be that way, fine. But we need the room. Guess you’ll have to wait down in holding for your fancy lawyer to get here.”

It sounds like a threat if ever I’ve heard one. He uncuffs me from the table but makes sure to sneakily press each bracelet a notch tighter around my wrist. The delight in his eyes at the small shock of pain is more worrisome than the discomfort.

Downstairs, he leads me through a checkpoint, where the officer on duty acts like the president is coming through. I’m betting the chief doesn’t come down here too often, especially not hauling a prisoner. It’s another odd puzzle piece in this picture.

Why in the world is someone like Harris the one investigating me and the fire, and not a run-of-the-mill detective? It must be because he wants this case for some reason.

The bars slide open in front of me and Harris shoves me. He’s obviously hoping I’ll lose my footing and go sprawling across the filthy concrete floor, but I do a good job of maintaining my balance. It’s a small win given today’s catastrophes, but hopefully the start of a good roll.

The door slides closed, and Harris sneers from the relative safety on the other side. “I’ll be sure to let you know when that lawyer gets here.” His tone tells me that he’ll have me waiting long after the family attorney arrives.

Once he’s gone, I turn around, looking at the handful of other guys in the holding cell with me. There’s a drunk and disheveled guy curled up in the corner, snoring lightly. A tall, bald guy with tattoos on both forearms who looks menacing, but I’m betting it’s his version of resting bitch face. And lastly, a middle-aged guy in khakis and a polo, with gold-rimmed glasses. He looks like someone who’d love to discuss the merits of quantum physics.

I lift my chin, greeting each of them silently, then move toward an empty section of bench to claim it for myself. My mind is still working, churning over everything we know and trying to piece together the rest of the puzzle.

I’ve got my head hanging down, my elbows resting on my spread knees when I hear a quick shuffle of feet. I look up to see the physics guy making a run at me, murder in his eyes.

I stand up fast, chin tight and ready for his assault. Not going to happen, but I’m surprised he’s more than I thought. “Sit down,” I growl.

Physics guy freezes a foot from me and veers off to sit down on the bench next to me like that was his goal all along. Creepy and strange.

Baldie lifts his eyebrows at the scene, then nods his head at the bench next to him. I take the invitation, moving to sit down. “I’m Dave, in for drunk and disorderly,” he says with a shrug. “I’m a happy drunk, what can I say?”

“And him?” I ask, looking to Physics Guy.

Baldie twists his lips, scowling. “Don’t know, but I can sense that little fucker’s wrong in the head.”

I concur, but thankfully, the buzz of the gate down the hall opening stops further conversation.

A familiar face soon appears in the bars. “Holy shit, I’m glad to see you, man!”

Jonathan smiles, but it’s grim. “Let’s just get you out of here. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Paperwork to get released takes twice as long as it did coming in when they were ripping my watch off and damn near drooling to get their hands on my wallet. I don’t know how much cash I had in it, but I’m betting it’s a little lighter now.

Finally, we get to Jonathan’s SUV and he pulls out of the lot, looking in the rearview mirror more times than safe driving requires. But he must see there’s no one tailing us, and my sideview mirror tells me the same.

“Thanks, man. I feel like there’s so much we need to talk about,” I say as he pulls out of downtown.

His jaw is set, teeth clenched. “Not yet.”

After a long stretch of silent minutes, he pulls into a treed driveway on a rural country road outside Roseboro. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his jammer. He flips it on and sets it on the dashboard.

Then he pulls his gun on me.