— Chapter 39 —

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Tick... tock...

Tick... tock...

The clock on the wall was beginning to drive me insane.

It was a frustrating tone to listen to. Metallic, but with a strangely grating high pitch behind it that seemed to irritate the very back of my eardrums.

"I'll ask you one more time, Mr. Black. Does the Kawasaki pictured in this photo belong to you?"

I slowly rested my gaze on the figure seated across from me. A detective—though I hadn't bothered to listen for their name.

He was short in height, with a beard full of pastry crumbs that only served to annoy me. I had hardly been listening to the words he'd been saying, much less to the photographs on the table that he'd been prodding at with his stocky finger.

Disinterested, I glanced around my surroundings.

In a word, it was... grey.

Grey-painted ceiling. Dark-grey, dusty walls. Linoleum flooring colored a boring, smoky shade that seemed to blend in with everything else. Even the metal table and chair that I was strapped to fit the theme. All grey.

The only exception was the white clock on the wall across from me. But even that managed to get on my nerves.

At least it told me how long I'd been stuck in the station for. According to the clock... six hours. It was nearly ten in the morning, though from the lack of windows, I figured I wasn't going to be basking in the morning sunlight anytime soon.

Six hours I'd been sitting here, bleeding out into a thick piece of gauze. After getting my mugshot taken, I was handcuffed and left in a metal chair... only to watch the same detective walk in, ask me a few questions, and walk out in frustration after I'd refused to give him answers.

In fact, I hadn't spoken a word so far.

I sank my teeth into my lower lip, turning my focus to the large, two-way mirror to the left of me.

...Someone was watching.

I knew exactly who.

"What is your connection to the other four riders who were racing with you tonight?" The detective asked, drawing me out of my thoughts.

I rested a flat gaze on him.

"Lieutenant Kessler is on the other side of that mirror, isn't he?" I inquired.

The detective, surprised by the sound of my voice, glanced briefly at the spotless mirror. Whether he was just unsure, or unable to answer altogether, I saw him swallow and remain quiet.

A heavy exhale left my nose.

"I'm not interested in answering to you," I said flatly. "If the Lieutenant wants me to talk, he can come in here and speak with me personally."

I leaned back into my seat and waited. Hesitant, the detective turned his deliberating stare from the mirror onto me.

Then he stood up, packed his things off the table, and walked out of the room.

That's what I thought.

The door shutting behind him, I let out a deep exhale.

It fucking stung. The gash in my side... it felt like someone had stabbed me with a scorching hot poker and left it there.

Keeping it hidden behind the padding of my jacket, I traced my fingers carefully along the edge of the bandage. The tape securing it to my body was beginning to wear. Blood had begun to leech through the fabric—speckles of crimson gore were staining my ivory shirt.

I adjusted the jacket to hide the wound as the door opened once more.

Lieutenant Kessler.

Locking the door shut behind him, I came to watch his face contort into a flat, inscrutable glare.

Kessler, in all his glory, was a tank. No doubt somewhere in his fifties, he stood tall enough to reach my nose and had defined muscles hugging every inch of his graceless limbs. Skin spots littered his hands and arms, with a few marring his nose. It was hooked and crooked in the center of his face—the result of a nasty blow he'd gotten earlier in his career.

The age had begun to show on his face. Amongst the deep lines creasing his forehead and cheeks, dark bags shadowed the hollows of his eyes. Grey hairs had grown into his patchy beard. His uniform was in pristine shape, colored navy-blue without a single crease to be seen.

Arguably, his most defining feature was the golden cross pinned to his collar—the Lieutenant had always been known for being a devout Christian.

He pulled back the adjoining chair and took a seat opposite to me. Leaving a folder on the table beside him, he leaned back in his chair and let out a breath.

"Your lawyer should be arriving soon," Kessler spoke.

"I didn't ask for one."

The Lieutenant shrugged and scratched his beard. "At this rate, kid, you're gonna need it."

"How do you figure?"

"160 miles an hour on city streets," Kessler uttered, opening the folder he'd brought in with him. "You're the only biker in this city suicidal enough to attempt something like that in this kind of weather."

What a poor choice of words.

"Clearly not."

Kessler's jaw tightened momentarily. Pulling photos out and resting them on the table before me, he gestured for me to take a look.

The photos had been taken through traffic cameras, and all had one thing in common: a rider on a black Kawasaki, wearing a pitch-black helmet and a bright white sweater.

But they were all terrible shots. Once I managed to spot my figure past all the rain pictured in the photo, I was nothing more than a blur on the paper. I'd clearly been moving too fast for the cameras to keep up. And the icing on the cake? None of the photos had any plates on the bike—Marcus had sprayed over them in black ink before we'd gone out.

I scoffed.

"You think this is amusing?" Kessler asked. "Considering your track record, something like this could have you looking at a decade behind bars."

"What I think is that none of this is going to hold up in court," I said simply, anxiously bouncing my leg. "You've got the wrong person, Lieutenant."

He hissed, "I have three patrol officers out there who tell me they can identify you by name."

"I can assure you that nobody was seeing more than three feet ahead of them in that weather," I replied. "What you have is three officers who think they saw me—but everyone knows that I'm the one who banned biker gangs from racing in this city. Why would I break my own code?"

"I could ask you the same question, Mr. Black," Kessler spoke with his raspy tone of voice. "Clearly your code hasn't been holding up lately. Four riders were involved in the race tonight—one of them openly wearing a Mayhem vest."

"Like I said to the officers who arrested me: I was at Joe's Bar all night. You can check the cameras and see for yourself."

Kessler's frown deepened.

"Boston hasn't had gangs racing like this since your old man was in charge. Now, all of a sudden, I've got street racers coming out of my damn ears. You're hiding something, and I'm not letting you leave here until I figure out what that is."

I clenched my jaw, frustration and nervousness swarming the back of my mind.

The possibility of this ending poorly for me was all too real—if it got any worse than this, I'd have no choice but to call in a favor.

With Sage.

The thought alone made me shudder. I hadn't seen her since the last time I got low.

A sharp sting of pain in my side made me adjust uncomfortably on my chair. Everything felt hot—it was as if the gash was burning through my flesh. It was a struggle to even think straight.

Just a little longer.

"Better make it quick, then, Lieutenant," I said with a quiet tone. "Seeing as you haven't officially charged me with anything, I'd say you don't have much time left to be keeping me in holding."

Kessler scratched his beard.

"We're still awaiting confirmation on your alibi," he told me. The lighting in the room caught on the religious cross pinned to his collar. "Until then... feel free to sit tight."

I observed him with a piercing gaze as he scraped his chair back and got to his feet. Before he left, though, he pulled something from his breast pocket.

"Here," he said, tossing a white handkerchief onto the table. "You look like you're breaking into a sweat, Mr. Black."

The Lieutenant's gaze lingered on me for only a moment afterward, then he turned his back on me and took his leave.

I could still remember how the anxiety had struck me once Lieutenant Kessler had walked out the door.

The next few hours felt like several years.

It was as if I were some kind of exhibit at the fucking zoo. Officers would walk in with their evidence, ask me a few pressing questions (which I refused to answer), stare at me for a bit longer, then leave empty-handed.

The lawyer had finally come around, though. I listened to her advice, but it was nothing I hadn't already heard the few other times I'd been arrested in the past.

I turned her away after that. The fewer people aware of my business, the better.

I'd lost track of how many hours I'd been sitting in the same damn chair. My ass was basically lead metal. I was cramping in places I didn't know could cramp. And whether it was grinding my teeth together or shuffling in my seat, I just couldn't sit still.

The clock on the wall read but the six could've been an eight, and the thirteen could've been a thirty for all I knew. Between all the blood loss and my overall exhaustion, I wasn't exactly seeing much further than my nose.

When was the last time I slept? I thought to myself, succumbing to a heavy yawn. Day before yesterday...?

I figured it couldn't have been more than seven hours sleep in the last three days.

I wasn't like Elliot. I couldn't just pass out wherever I rested my head—but that was a trait of his I envied at that moment. The metal table was starting to look comfortable.

Stay awake, Edge.

With shallow breaths, I slowly wiped the sweat off my brow and felt the gauze padding at my side.

The blood had soaked through most of it.

It had started to trickle out of the edges, staining my inflamed skin. In an effort to stop it from dripping out onto the floor, I'd come upon the idea of shoving Kessler's handkerchief beneath the corner that had come loose. Needless to say, he wasn't getting it back.

The vents above my head blasted cold air into the room, but aside from emphasising how scorching hot my own body was, they were basically useless. Sweat glistened at every inch of my figure, with my skin blazing in shades of pink and red. If this was any comparison to the raging flames of Hell, then I was just about ready to consider becoming a puritan.

I didn't even register that the door had opened until Kessler had taken a seat in front of me once more.

Exhausted, I forced out, "How's my alibi looking, Lieutenant?"

Kessler's expression turned into an observant glare.

"They were having trouble accessing the security footage in the bar," He said. "Doesn't seem like you'll be getting yourself out of this one, Kid. I would've stuck with the lawyer."

Fucking shit.

Sure, the traffic cam photographs weren't the best, and the witness statements were probably disputable, but any district attorney worth their salt could figure out a way to spin the story against me to a judge. And a guy like me had no chance in court.

I didn't want to call Sage.

They owed me a favor, sure—but using it as a get-out-of-jail-free card was a serious overcompensation for what they owed. Not to mention the scolding I'd get for getting arrested again.

But if it continued like this.... then they were the only chance I had of being able to salvage the situation. And if it came down to it, I'd choose that over prison every day of the week.

Kessler urged, "I could negotiate a lesser sentence with your judge if you'd just agree to help us identify the other three riders."

I lied through gritted teeth, growing frustrated. "If you had any solid evidence against my innocence you would've charged me by now. You're just wasting your breath."

"Don't be so sure about that," the officer replied, a smug look in his eyes. "We're in the middle of questioning one of your associates—Marcus Danes. He's been in league with you for a while now, isn't that right?"

Fuck.

"He checked in with a wounded motorcyclist at a hospital not far from here," Kessler continued. "The motorcyclist has already been matched to a profile of one of the four riders—your friend is still in questioning. If he confesses to being in the race alongside you, then the two of you are going to be looking at some hard time behind prison bars."

I sucked in a deep breath—notably deeper than any other breath I'd taken while he'd been speaking.

I'm so fucked.

The security footage was a bust. That meant that all the effort of having Elliot listen to me was for nothing. That fake alibi wasn't saving me now.

Perhaps I'd find some luck, and Marcus wouldn't go running his damn mouth. But considering his history of having the loosest lips in Boston, I wasn't about to go wasting my faith on him.

Sage is going to murder me.

But just as I had begun to accept my fate, my blurry focus caught on the golden cross on Kessler's collar.

And I sat.

And I thought.

And it wasn't long before it finally fucking hit me.

"You're a god-fearing Christian, Lieutenant, isn't that right?" I drawled as I leaned forward in my seat. "I've been trying to remember why your name was so familiar—you were a priest before you were an officer, isn't that right?"

Hesitantly, Kessler replied, "That's right."

"See, my Ma used to take me to your Sunday services back when I was a kid," I explained, my fingers fidgeting in the pockets of my jacket. "I honestly wouldn't have remembered if it weren't for your uniform. Heh, you're the only damn officer in this city who's naive enough to wear a crucifix on your collar."

Kessler's brows furrowed. "What are you getting at?"

"Nothing," I told him, pausing to lick my bottom lip. "I'm just wondering if your lovely family knows how much time you spent fucking the nuns between sermons... Father Kessler."

Kessler's eye twitched, his mouth parting open slightly. I took the opportunity to continue while he was still speechless.

"Impressive that you've kept that dirty little secret for this long. No doubt that someone with your saintly reputation would be, well, shunned," I articulated. "Not to mention your marriage... tell me, Father, what exactly does the bible say about adultery?"

A tense silence filled the air.

It was a last-ditch attempt at buying myself some security, and Kessler understood the game. I could see it in the way his grey eyes swirled with internal conflict. Pursing his lips, the resentment seemed to come off him in waves.

Then, with his jaw tight, Lieutenant Kessler enunciated slowly, "Did you just attempt to blackmail a police officer?"

I leaned back in the chair and shrugged.

"Not at all," I said. "Just curious."

Kessler opened his mouth to speak again, but the door behind him was shoved open by another officer.

"I thought I told you not to interrupt me," Kessler said to them, glancing at the officer from over his shoulder.

"Apologies, sir," the officer said. "I just thought you'd like to know that we were finally able to verify Mr. Black's alibi—he's innocent. The security footage shows him drinking at Joe's Bar throughout the night."

I wanted to cry out in relief.

Somehow, someway, the little trick I'd pulled with Elliot had managed to fool them. I didn't know how long that lie would last, but it had bought me some time and I was more than ready to leave. Whatever the cops wanted, they wouldn't be prying it out of me tonight.

Kessler had run out of time to hold me. He had no choice but to let me go. And it was about time, too—I was minutes away from bleeding out onto the floor. Or worse, passing out in the middle of the station.

Holding my side carefully, I got to my feet and hid the pain behind a triumphant stare. Kessler returned the expression with furious eyes.

Finally, I announced, "I think I'd like to make a phone call now, Lieutenant."

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I'll be taking a few days off to recharge and welcome in the new year so here's an early update! Last update of 2021! The next few chapters are gonna be a wild ride...