He takes hold of my arm and escorts me to a small interrogation room with gloomy gray walls. I sit in a hard metal chair at a dented wooden table and glance up at the two-way mirror in front of me.
Things just got serious. This has nothing to do with possession.
I take a breath, trying to steady my pulse. But it continues to pick up speed.
A few minutes later, the door opens and two men in suits walk in, nodding toward the cop, who leaves us. They say something, probably their names, but I'm not listening. I'm staring at the small figure behind them, clutching a rose-colored duster sweater around her body.
I stand up in a sudden movement, the chair scraping against the floor. "What is she doing here?"
"Lana," my mother says gently, "it's okay. They said I needed to be here."
A lanky, bald detective points to a chair in the corner of the room, near the door. She smiles at him nervously and sits.
"Have a seat," the detective with the horrible complexion and bushy mustache instructs firmly.
Keeping my eyes on my mother, I lower myself onto the chair again. She's ghostly pale, and her eyes are rimmed red. I know she's not well, and she shouldn't have to be here.
The detective with the mustache--Freddy, I'll call him since I missed his name and his skin reminds me of a nightmare--sits across from me with a file in his hand. He proceeds to recite my Miranda rights and has me sign the paper stating I understand them. The other detective leans against the wall next to the door with his arms folded.
"Want to let you know that we're recording this right now," he tells me, tilting his head toward the two-way mirror. A red light is faintly visible on the other side.
I flip it off with an obnoxious smile.
"Nice," he mutters.
I give him a let's-get-on-with-this look of impatience as I lean back in the chair with my arms crossed. If they actually did their homework and looked me up, they know they're about to waste a lot of time because I don't talk. Ever. No matter how long they keep me in this depressing room.
I watch him flip open the file folder on the table between us, and he spreads a couple grainy photos in front of me. Now I know why I'm here. It's next to impossible to make out the faces, the imagery is so poor, but my blinding blond hair is hard to miss, as is the gun in the hand of the guy dressed in black.
"What have you been up to tonight, Lana?"
I raise my eyes to look at him, my face expressionless. And that's how I remain for the next hour or two. It's hard to tell since there isn't a clock in this oppressive room. They ask questions. I don't answer.
"Tell us who the male with the gun is, Lana. Make it easier on yourself," the detective with the pockmarks along his jawline asks me for the hundredth time. "If you didn't do anything wrong, then you have nothing to worry about."
The corner of my mouth quirks. His eyes narrow into a glower. I know better. The truth won't save me. There's a reason Honesty's my curse.
My mother continues to look frailer with each passing second. I don't want her in here, but I'm a minor, and they don't want to worry about my rights being violated if they question me without a parent present. It's worse for her than it is for me. And I'm concerned she's about to pass out.
"Could you get my mother some water?" I ask the detective who's remained standing by the door with his arms crossed. I think he's supposed to look intimidating. It's not working.
The detective glances at my stricken mother and back to Freddy.
Freddy gives him a subtle nod and glances at the two-way glass, making sure the red light is on and the camera's still recording this pathetic interview.
"Lana, we have you on tape at the convenience store. We have the statement from the clerk. We recovered the stolen lottery tickets from your possession. You know who the guy is holding the gun. All you have to do is tell us; otherwise, it looks like you're his accomplice. Either way, you're obstructing the investigation."
I glance at my mother again. She wipes a tear from her cheek with a shaky hand. I try to reassure her with a small smile. She bites her lip to keep from crying.
"Does she really need to be in here?" I ask again for the tenth time.
The door opens. The wall art reappears with a bottle of water. Once he's through the door, I notice someone's behind him. A tall, regal-looking man in a suit. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back--not in a slimy mob-boss way, but in a distinguished I-have-money-and-power kind of way. His vibrant blue eyes take in the room with an assessing glance, from my mother to Freddy, and then steady on me. His face is expressionless, but his eyes tell me everything I need to know. He's confident, intelligent, and he gets exactly what he wants ... just like his son.
"This interview is over," he announces.
My mother stands, her crystal-blue eyes wide. "Niall?"
The man's face softens when he turns toward her, a small, sad smile on his face. "Faye," he acknowledges solemnly, like he's silently apologizing for something.
Her eyes flood with tears that she blinks back, gratitude and relief dancing in them. The relief confuses me--like she knows he will fix this.
"Don't worry. I'll take care of her. Why don't you wait out in the hall for me?"
My mother nods, quickly glancing at me before slipping out of the room. With the click of the door closing, Niall focuses back on us--or I should say, on me. He stares at me stoically, his face not giving anything away.
Freddy's jaw clenches. "Niall, you're her lawyer? I didn't think you took these kind of cases."
Niall Harrison doesn't respond to his question. "I need a moment alone with my client."
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Acknowledgments
This story was determined to be written, even after years of writing and re-writing the first four chapters. I learned a lot during those years--mostly, that I needed to be kind to myself, even when I felt like I was failing. Especially when I felt like I was failing.
I am surrounded by beautiful and strong women who encouraged and supported me during the time I felt most fragile. When I questioned who I was and what I was doing. They never faltered. And I am so very grateful to have them in my life. Thank you for not giving up on me!
And thank you to you, my readers, who have waited patiently for the words to find me again. They have. And, oh, do they have a story to tell you!
This is just the beginning ...
About the Author
Rebecca Donovan, the USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestselling YA author of The Breathing Series and What If, lives in a small town in Massachusetts with her son. Influenced and obsessed with music, Rebecca can often be found jumping around at concerts, or on a plane to go see one. She's determined to experience (not just live) life. And then write about it.
Table of Contents
If I'd Known
Also by Rebecca Donovan
Copyright (c) 2017 by Rebecca Donovan
Dedication
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Rebecca Donovan, If I’d Known
(Series: Cursed # 1)
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