29. Frey

TWENTY-NINE

FREY

All I can hear is myself screaming. A sea of faceless individuals shout at me, but I only know they do so from their gaping, soundless mouths. It's a moment eerily similar to the hazy moments when I stood on the edge of a bridge and watched the world pass me by. Present but not aware.

The old Frey was like that—a quiet, meek onlooker in her own life, a slave to the whims of others around her.

Daze changed that. With his gruff demeanor and honest words, he snapped me out of my self-pitying behavior. Gave me a will to fight. Helped me find my backbone.

I can repay that debt by standing still and watching him die.

"Wait!" I issue the shout, and it's as though whoever is in control of the universe hit a fast-forward button. A million things seem to happen all at once.

The police agents move in, still commanding their shouts. I think some of them even go for their weapons. Doesn't matter. There isn't even time to care about myself.

I step forward, hooking my arms around Daze the second his legs give out. He's so heavy. All I can do is crouch to slow his descent and pray he's merely unconscious. Sensing Silas moving nearby, I have the presence of mind to grab the gun, at least.

Then I just shout out orders without really hearing myself speak. In reality, none of these men should give a damn about anything I say. If they're truly under my father's payroll, all they should do is press a gun to my head and order me into the back of a squad car.

For all I know, that is exactly what happens.

But maybe it's pity on their part or sheer stubbornness on my behalf, but I get them to call an ambulance for Daze first. I make sure to watch him be loaded into the back of it, strapped to a stretcher.

I do that much for him, at least.

I make sure he's alive until the paramedics finally pull off. How long will he be with my father's informants on his payroll is another question entirely.

I'm seated in a darkened room with only a metal table in the center and two chairs. A single light fixture in the ceiling, casts a harsh, artificial glow that is reminiscent of the clinical air of a doctor's office. Nothing about this place instills a sense of care or comfort, however. The walls are a blank, empty gray, but I'm not fooled.

One of them more than likely sports a two-way mirror from behind which an army of officers are probably watching me right now. Along with my father for all I know. Dread builds in my stomach as I think of Daze and everything he's been through already because of me.

Could I have just led him into one last and final trap?

No. I steel myself with a forced inhale and wait. As the seconds tick by, I decide that sitting here patiently serves no one, certainly not me.

"I'm ready to talk," I say out loud while eyeing every inch of this narrow room. "The question is, are any of you really open to hearing the truth? Or is my father's money enough to buy your silence even now?—"

The door opens, and a blond man steps inside. I don't recognize him, but I can tell from his demeanor that he isn't from around here. He isn't overly cocky, for one, and as he approaches the table where I sit, he inclines his head respectfully toward me.

"Ms. Heywood? My name is Agent?—"

"Respectfully, I don't care what your name is," I blurt out. Where the hell did this newfound attitude come from? Maybe it's simply born out of fear. The longer I stay in here, is more time that Daze is left alone. At risk. They probably took him to the same hospital they took Silas to.

Who's to say my father and his connections haven't already gotten to him?

"I can see that your brother was right to entrust his suspicions to you. I'm assuming he is why you pulled such a brazen stunt earlier, hijacking your father's planned broadcast?"

I stiffen instantly at the mention of Hale. Could it be a trick? A way to taunt me before an inevitable defeat?

Deciding to play it safe, I say nothing. As the seconds tick by, the man continues to watch me, his gaze unreadable. Finally, he sighs and flattens the palm of one hand against the table, inches from my own.

"Well, I can see that we're both ready to cut to the chase," he says. "I'm from the Department of Homeland Security, and all I need from you is one thing. A yes or no answer."

"What's that?"

"To complete my investigation, I need your father on record confirming some of the accusations against him. The only one I can foresee getting anywhere is you. Are you up to that task?"

I can't nod quickly enough, but the words that fly out of my mouth next isn't the polite agreement the old Frey Heywood might issue. Instead, I sound more like… Daze.

A fact I proudly embrace.

"You're damn right I am," I say. "Just tell me when."