(Book 2 of 3 in the Weakness Series )
In one year she fell to pieces. Two were spent in therapy. Three to learn self defense. Four getting a degree for her passion. It took five years for Kira to rebuilt herself after being yanked away from the life...
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What the hell is happening?
I've been here for a total of forty-seven minutes and twenty seconds, stuck inside a sterile white interrogation room. The usual dark green tones you see on TV evidently aren't accurate.
However, the suspect sweating anxiously is accurate. It's dead silent apart from the slow ticks and it's making me nervous. I don't see why I'm yet to be interviewed or even know if Rhys is here yet clarifying what I explained on the way over.
Not even Kyle has been to see me.
I glance at the glass opposite me wondering if there's people watching me behind it. I probably look guilty as hell. But I didn't vandalize the dance studio and I'm offended I've been accused of it. Especially if my name was supplied as a possible suspect.
When the door clicks and a familiar figure enters I tense up. Oh man. Henry Foster holds a small black book in his hands and a thin stack of papers tucked underneath. The smug look on his face doesn't settle my nerves - if anything it raises it.
Surely he isn't going to use personal experience against me. But then again he did kick his daughter out of the house as a punishment for being lesbian. The whole point was to make her suffer and I had helped her gain her footing, not something he wanted.
"Are you-"
"I'd be quiet if I were you Miss Collins," Henry tries to hide his arrogance but I can see it clearly. He's never been able to hide the superiority he feels over others. "We have sufficient evidence that you were involved in the destruction of your workplace."
"I was-"
"With your boyfriend, Rhys Adams." He sneers, not bothering to hide his disgust and I cross my arms with my nails digging into the palm of my hand.
"Exactly-"
"But according to his statement he left at five a.m. The studio was vandalized half an hour later," I retract my nails with shock. He left that early? Why? He clears his throat and places images before me. "The mirrors were smashed at your height level and we have a warrant to search your property for the spray paint used. On top of that a statement that classifies the message written on the floor."
I furrow my eyebrows, shaking my head slowly. "Firstly you don't know my height, it's hear say unless you accessed medical records which requires a warrant. Secondly the warrant wouldn't be granted on the weekend - no judge in this town works weekends."
Henry loses his arrogance and I tilt my chin slightly in defiance. Something I remembered clearly was my dad venting about the judges not signing warrants when needed on weekends. I doubt that's changed in five years unless they've been paid off - which means the judge is corrupt and so is any law enforcer who takes it.
