Storm's Cage Mary Stone (classic reads .TXT) 📖

Regret burned in the back of my mind, but I knew that if I made one misstep today, I’d be up shit creek without a paddle. All I had to do was get through the round of interviews with Detective Yoell and his partner, and then I could request some personal time to mourn the death of my friend.

Admittedly, I hadn’t prepared for this day. For a beat, I’d even convinced myself that I wouldn’t have to hurt anyone. Two of the three men who could identify me from Alton Dalessio’s warehouse basement were dead, and I’d never crossed paths with any of the surviving girls.

I’d have been more comfortable if Alton was the sole survivor, but from what I understood, Carlo Enrico was a tenured Leóne soldier.

Alton and Matteo had both died by their own hand, though Alton’s suicide was more indirect. Where Matteo had put a bullet through his temple, Alton had committed suicide by cop. Or suicide by Fed, as it were.

Not that I cared about the two Leóne men. I’d gotten along with Alton well enough, but we’d been more business partners than anything else.

Ian, on the other hand, had been my friend, but his curiosity and his sense of duty had pushed him into my crosshairs. I’d seen the bold determination in his eyes when he’d asked me and the others about the Kankakee County farm.

I’d seen that look, and I knew what it held in store. That look, that glimmer of defiance and righteousness, had made Ian into one of the precinct’s best homicide detectives. And that look told me that if the FBI’s investigation led them to Ian, he’d roll over like a trained puppy.

Though he was a Leóne ally like me and the others, he’d never bought into the crime family like we had. He’d followed while we had led.

But the choice had come down to him or me, and the decision had been clear. I wasn’t a coward like Alton or Matteo, but I also wasn’t prepared to spend the rest of my life in a Federal prison.

Plucking my keys from the edge of the marble breakfast bar, I took in a steadying breath to return myself to the real world. The sense of regret weighed on me, but the sentiment was useful. Regret and grief occupied the same emotional sphere, and I could spin the remorse into mourning with minimal effort.

I closed my hand around the car keys until the metal bit into my palm.

I had an act to maintain, and it was showtime.

Sipping at the paper cup of coffee in my hands, I glanced up as the heavy wooden door swung inward. Natasha Reyman’s dark eyes fell on me.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. It’s been a…busy morning, to say the least.” She pulled out a chair across the table and sat beside her partner.

I shook my head. “You don’t have to apologize. It’s part of the job.”

Floyd Yoell took out a notebook and fished around the desk for his pen. “Well, either way, we appreciate you coming in here to knock this out on your day off.”

Setting the coffee to the side, I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, letting the peppermint oil I’d applied to them do its work. “It’s no problem.” I sniffed and wiped my nose on a wadded up tissue. “I just hope there’s something I can do to help.”

Detective Yoell finally produced a pen from the interior pocket of his navy-blue suit jacket and flipped his notebook open. “Okay. Let’s just go through the basics to start with.” His pale blue eyes flicked up to meet mine. “Where were you last night, or this morning technically, between the hours of one and two a.m.?”

I blew out a quiet breath. For a beat, I pretended to consider the detective’s words. “I was at home in bed.” I shook my head in disbelief. “I can’t believe this happened. How…how did he die?”

Natasha’s eyes oozed sympathy. “We can talk about all that later.”

Floyd scribbled a few words on the notepad and glanced back at me. “Is there anyone who can confirm where you were last night and this morning?”

Blowing out a long breath, I ran a hand down my face. I had to play this part just right.

I might not have thought out every detail when I’d decided to kill my friend, but I’d gone over this part of the interview in my head more times than I could count. I knew I wouldn’t have an alibi for the time of Ian’s death, but I would have only made myself look more suspicious if I’d tried to establish a way to verify my whereabouts.

Instead, when I’d left for the Strausbaugh house, I’d left my phone on the nightstand beside my bed, and I’d exited the house through the backyard. I’d walked more than a mile to a bar—the only business near my house that was open so late at night. With a prepaid debit card and a fake name, I’d used a burner phone to order a rideshare to take me from the neighborhood pub to an address located a couple miles from Ian’s house.

The whole process had been tedious and borderline annoying, but each step was a necessary precaution. Drivers for rideshare companies saw so many customers each night that there was little to no chance they’d remember my face well enough to place me. I’d taken an alternate route back to my apartment, and I’d been careful to use a different company for the return trip.

I was sure I’d covered all my bases. Now, I just had to play my role.

Finally, I shook my head. “It was just me at home. Katie and I have been separated since the beginning of the year. Divorce still isn’t official yet, but you know.” I left the comment unfinished as I played for added sympathy, fingering a peppermint induced tear from the corner of my eye. “You can probably check the GPS