Chapter 53

53

Aubree

If I didn’t think of him, it was only for a brief interlude. A moment of insanity when something in the world managed to distract me for a minute. I’d become a broken woman, going through motions. Empty inside.

Nearly a week had passed since the fire, and I still couldn’t function.

Even then, I stared at the gray walls in the small, claustrophobic room that somehow left a metallic taste in the back of my throat, likely from all the steel housed in such a small space. The table. Guns. My nerves.

I should’ve been reveling in my newfound freedom.

Except, my world felt like a cage, and I was the willing captive.

I needed him. Could feel phantom sensations brush across my skin whenever I recalled the first night we’d made love. For years, I’d worn my armor, deflecting pain, but I’d become nothing more than a hollow shell, on the verge of being crushed into a million pieces.

“You said this man who kidnapped you claimed to be Nicholas James Ryder? The same Nicholas James Ryder that supposedly perished in a fire three years ago?”

The investigator, whose name I couldn’t recall, sat across from me in the interrogation room. I’d sat there for hours, as if I’d been the criminal.

“Yes.”

“And he confessed to being the Eye for An Eye Killer as well as Achilleus X, as a means of retaliation for what was done to his family?”

“Yes.” I kept my answers brief, just as my lawyer had coached me.

“And it was your husband who was supposedly responsible for the murder of his family?”

“That’s what he said.”

He paused his scribbling. “That’s what who said?”

I studied the pockmarks in his face and noticed the sweat bleeding into the collar of his dress shirt. Flakes of dandruff dotted his dark gray sport coat, and my eyes shot toward his greasy, unkempt mop of brown hair. To the side of him sat a Styrofoam cup, wafting out the smell of stale coffee. I’d become a vessel, soaking up observations, keeping thoughts and conversations to myself. A silent box of secrets. “Nick.”

The television hanging from the corner of the room behind him showed Achilleus X, his masked face talking in silence with the volume muted. The closed caption text moved across the screen and read the same heart-wrenching message that’d played for the last two days, as news investigators pieced together a story from the destruction:

“People of Detroit. If you’re watching this video, it means I’m already dead. Your mayor has broken a very solemn vow to protect and serve you. He’s a murderer, a thief, and a liar. I’d intended to reveal myself, but Achilleus X is more than what’s hidden behind this mask. It’s more than flesh and bone. It doesn’t matter who I am. I’m merely a shell to house the belief shared by all of us. Speramus meliora resurget cineribus. Detroit will rise from the ashes. Operation Culling. Operation Devil’s Night. Stand down.”

“It makes no sense.” The investigator shook his head, drawing my attention away from the screen. “There are two completely different personalities when it comes to these crimes. It’s still my theory that Achilleus X and the Eye for an Eye killer are two individuals working together.”

“She’s told you what was told to her.” My lawyer sat beside me, flipping through notes he’d taken during the questioning. Unlike the investigator, Miles was clean cut, with manicured nails and thin-wired glasses that gave him an air of intelligence. “Are we going to sit here and keep rehashing the same questions? My client has suffered a very traumatic week.”

“One more… question. Anyone that might’ve had some beef with your husband? A vendetta? Aside from Nicholas Ryder, who you claim was Achilleus X?”

Don’t give them any more than necessary. Push the truth away. Don’t let them see it written all over your face. I felt like a criminal, but the one true criminal had died in those flames.

I couldn’t count the number of people who had a vendetta against my husband, all of them ghosts, whispering in my ear at that moment. I wouldn’t allow Michael to be viewed as a victim, when he’d victimized so many people. I could provide a list of names. People who’d been victimized by Michael’s violence, including our very own maid, Elise, who’d had her tongue cut out when she asked about photographs she’d once found while cleaning his office. The police had their evidence. They had their proof. Anything more would implicate the wrong person and inevitably make their saintly politician look like a martyr. “My husband made a lot of enemies in this city. You have Julius’s confession.”

Lips forming a hard line, the investigator dropped his gaze from mine and gave a sharp nod. “If we have any further questions, we’ll be in touch. I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

Fuck Michael. I hated accepting any measure of sympathy for him, but that was the game I had to play.

“Thank you.” I nodded, feeling light as I rose up from the chair.

I’d had vertigo a number of times since the explosion. Part of me wondered if I’d ever feel connected to the world again. If I’d ever feel whole.

Another part of me just didn’t care.