Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
This one is grainy. It’s been taken a long time ago, before Ian sported his fashionable haircut. His hair is longer and shabbier, but it’s undoubtedly him.
“Grew up in Brixton, Johannesburg,” Wolfe says. “He’s been caught for shoplifting at the age of fifteen. After a third warning, he was sentenced to an industrial school for juvenile delinquents, but he ran away before social services could pick him up, taking his younger brother, Leon, with him.”
I listen, enraptured, absorbing every detail.
“After that, no one has seen or heard from them again,” he continues.
They got Ian’s fingerprints from the cabin. With his delinquent arrest, there would’ve been a record. That’s how they discovered his identity.
Implications crash into me. If I betray Ian, I’ll end up dead. He won’t hesitate to shoot a woman. He said so himself. The man following me can wait for me when I get home. Ian had the new gate and locks installed. He’ll have the keys. He could’ve given a set to my stalker.
I backtrack a step. By stealing another night with me, Ian had revealed his identity to the cops. They have the DNA from his hair, skin, and semen. It will match the DNA of his blood, tying him to the crime scene.
“What do you want from me?” I whisper.
“You know what I think?” Wolfe leans a foot on the chair and rests his elbow on his knee. “I think he raped you, and you don’t want anyone to know. Why else did you refuse a medical examination?”
I still. Despite everything, anger bubbles up inside me. “He did not rape me,” I say through clenched teeth. I won’t pin that false accusation on Ian, no matter what.
He slams his hand on the photo of Ian buried inside me. “Then fucking explain this.”
“Jim,” Hackman says in a nervous tone. “Language, man.”
Wolfe points a finger at me. “Explain that.”
“I can’t,” I say again.
“Here’s what’s going to happen.” Wolfe shoves his hands into his pockets. “If we submit this evidence, you’re going to look like an accomplice. You’ll be charged with the same crimes as Hart and his gang.” He stresses, “All of them that happened in the last few months. Do you know what a lifetime in prison feels like? Because that’s how long you’ll get.”
I can’t breathe. I look between the men in shock and disbelief. No. Wolfe is serious. The worst part is that he’s right. I do seem like an accomplice. All the facts—the money to pay my rent, that I returned unharmed from a kidnapping when most people would’ve turn up dead, and the intimacy in the public pool—everything points at me being in cahoots with the gang.
“I want a lawyer.” I look at Hackman, who seems the more reasonable of the two detectives. “Now.”
“You don’t,” Wolfe says, “because I’m going to cut you a deal.”
The hair in my nape stands on end. There’s no deal in the world I can accept without paying with my life.
“We need information on Hart and his gang.” After giving me a moment for the words to sink in, he continues, “We want you to go in undercover.”
My whole body jerks in shock. Hackman shifts, seeming uncomfortable. This is illegal. They can’t use a civilian to go in undercover and gather information.
Wolfe carries on relentlessly. “We want to know who the other two gang members are, and we want to know how and where they launder the money they steal.”
His face swims in my vision. “How am I supposed to do that?”
“You’re a clever girl.” He gives me a flat smile. “You’ll figure it out.”
“No.” Nearly barfing my breakfast, I get to my feet.
Hackman jumps off the desk and moves to the door, blocking the exit with his body.
“Arrest me,” I say, “or let me out.”
Wolfe picks up another photo and comes around the desk. He can give those photos to every news channel in the country for all I care. I won’t let him blackmail me with them. They prove nothing.
He waves the image in my face.
I stumble a step, catching myself by gripping the chair behind me. It’s Nick. In a pool of blood. Half of his face missing.
My stomach loses the battle. Rushing to the trashcan next to the desk, I fold double and empty my stomach. I retch until dry heaves rack my body. I have to support myself with a hand on the desk to straighten.
“Where were you on Tuesday night, Ms. Joubert?” Wolfes asks again.
He’s taunting me. I don’t know what to say any more. I can’t wrap my head around the brutal image in my mind. Why? Who?
Wolfe leans against the desk and crosses his ankles, the photo dangling between his forefinger and thumb. “You admitted you were angry with Mr. Kruger when he fired you.”
I gnash my teeth. “I said I was upset.”