Saving Hailey: Dark Academia, Enemies To Lovers, Mafia Romance (Shadows of Obsession Book 2)

PRESENT DAY

I’ve worked with Dante for years, committing crimes that should’ve left me rotting behind steel bars, but somehow, I’ve never experienced the pleasure of an interrogation room.

They’re just as I imagined. A spitting image of what popular crime dramas get right: oppressively small, the brightness of the overhead light almost surgical, the chair Vaughn left me in designed for discomfort. Hard, cold metal digs into the backs of my legs while my hands rest on an equally cold table, cuffed to a rail running across the top.

The door to my right stands shut, a reminder of my reluctant presence in the almost empty room. I may have come willingly, but that doesn’t mean I want to be here.

I don’t have any other choice.

Stale, dusty air hangs heavy as if the room hasn’t seen a vacuum in decades and two surveillance cameras face my way, red diodes winking in sync.

I feel the eyes of the entire police squad boring into me from the large, one-way mirror. Vaughn made quite a spectacle ten minutes ago, parading me like a prized catch through the precinct.

Most cops had to pick their jaws up off the fucking floor while Vaughn paraded me front and center, rubbing the sight in everyone’s faces as if saying, It took me ten minutes to do what none of you managed in eight years.

I had no idea he had such a flare for drama. Maybe that’s where Hailey gets her acting talent.

Before I was tossed into this matchbox of a room, Chief Jeremy Smith offered me his signature head tilt over Vaughn’s shoulder. I’ve seen that tilt countless times, so I know it means something along the lines of I’ll see what I can do.

Nice gesture, but his services won’t be needed today. The warrant is fake. Even if it was genuine, there’d still be exactly jack shit Jeremy could do to help me other than sending one of his first-aiders to bandage my bleeding hand, and he already did that.

Vaughn’s not one to be swayed by bribes or backdoor deals, and he’s brought along a bunch of fresh-faced, equally stiff-looking recruits, probably straight out of the police academy, their ideals still intact.

A smirk curves my lips. Vaughn has nothing on me but desperate men do desperate things…

Surely, he has to know the accusation won’t stick. I didn’t kill Matthews and he can’t prove otherwise. He’s throwing punches in the dark, hoping for a lucky strike.

The door bursts open in another dramatic display intended to falter my confidence. It strikes the wall like a lightning bolt and accomplishes nothing but pointless noise. He’s barking up the wrong tree if he thinks he’ll intimidate me with a bang.

He strides in, two steaming cups in hand, the bittersweet aroma overpowering the space in seconds. Looks like he’s about to dive deep into the role of good cop.

He’s not fooling anyone.

One of his rookies follows him in, the key to my cuffs dangling from his index finger. He hesitates, pausing over the threshold.

“Uncuff him,” Vaughn orders. “And leave.”

“But, sir—” he protests, only to cower under Vaughn’s stare. “Of course, sir. I’ll be outside if you need me.”

The cuffs fall away, clinking against the table. I rub my wrists and flex my fingers, restoring circulation as I lean back, giving my legs a break from the chair’s hard edge.

Vaughn doesn’t say a word. He holds my gaze, slides one coffee across the table, and settles into the opposite chair.

From the inside pocket of his jacket, he retrieves a small recorder, setting it down with deliberate care.

I cock an eyebrow, glancing at the standard-issue recording device already in the room. The red standby light tells me all I need to know. Given the botched warrant, I shouldn’t be surprised he’s not following protocols… but I am. It doesn’t fit his profile.

He sizes me up, eyes sharp and challenging like he’s waiting for me to crack under pressure. Like he expects me to confess if he stares long enough. Maybe such tricks have worked on the lesser minds he’s interrogated in the past, but—again—wrong fucking tree.

I lift the cup, blow the steam off, and take a sip, waiting for the curtain to drop.

Years of working with Dante Carrow taught me all about maintaining my composure in the most unlikely situations. I can calm down and keep my cool at the snap of my fingers ninety-nine percent of the time.

It was a hundred percent until very recently. Until I found the glaring exception, the chink in my armor. A vulnerability with long blonde hair and blue eyes. Any harm coming Hailey’s way, one small new scratch or bruise on her perfect body, and my control disintegrates. Calming down when she’s hurt is mission fucking impossible.

Growing bored of Vaughn’s strategy, I break the silence. My lawyer wouldn’t approve, but whatever. It’s not like I killed Matthews and anything I say will be used against me in the court of law. This won’t get that far.

“You know the accusation won’t stick.”

“You sure about that?” Vaughn barks, his voice clipped as he hits record on his little device. “State your full name for the record.”

“Carter Beckett.”

He narrows his eyes, a hint of oh shit etched into every line on his face. Now he knows why the accusation won’t stick. He fucked up the warrant.

“Not Willard?” he drawls, faking ignorance.© NôvelDrama.Org - All rights reserved.

“Would you like to see my driver’s license?”

He’s clearly taken aback, but he marshals his expression fast, pretending this little hiccup hasn’t blown his entire endeavor out of the water. “What’s your relation to Rhett Willard?”

“He’s my father, but you already know that.” I lean further back, hoping this chair has a more comfortable angle.

And Vaughn keeps staring as if he can catch me lying without a lie detector. Maybe he can. Hailey says he’s a master at reading people and Rhett agrees.

“Where were you the night of Jonathan’s murder? November seventeenth,” he grits out, every syllable sharper than the last, a staccato rhythm bouncing off the walls.

“You know where I was, Vaughn.” Unlike his crackling voice, mine holds steady despite the storm brewing inside me.

Dante’s words bounce inside my mind, a survival mantra to help me along: “Interrogation rooms are like poker tables. Never show your hand. Leave emotion at the door.”

“Then you’ll have no problem stating it for the record, Mr. Beckett.”

I take a deliberate sip of coffee and flush the survival mantra down the drain. “We both know I’m here because Hailey told you about a guy called Nash Wright who’s been lying to her for two fucking months, and you took a magnifying glass to him. To me.”

His lip twitches and his fists clench, a flicker of doubt or surprise shadowing his features before his stoic façade returns, masking it all.

But it’s too late. I already know I’m getting to him.

He’s good. I’ll give him that. Despite the minuscule slip-up, his eyes wrinkle at the corners, feigning amusement. Most people wouldn’t notice the tics that betray his real feelings.

Most, however, doesn’t mean all.

I know where to look and Charles Vaughn is far from amused. He’s a ball of nerves.

“Where were you the night of the murder?” he insists.

I drag a heavy hand down my face. He’s a cop through and through. Everything must be spelled out, ts crossed and is dotted for the fucking record so it holds up in court.

“I was at Lakeside College until about midnight. After that, I went looking for my girl.”

“Your girl?”

“You heard me,” I deadpan. “When I couldn’t find her, I headed out of the Berkshires toward Ohio, so I was on the interstate the rest of the night.”

His forehead lines, another uncharacteristic flicker in his eyes, but he catches himself so fast I’m not sure if it’s skepticism or surprise.

“Ohio? Why Ohio?”

“Where else would I start? I didn’t think you’d be careless enough to hide Hailey at home, but I figured you’d want her closer this time.”

The tension in his shoulders ratchets up as he leans forward, muscles feathering his jaw, a vein pulsing on his neck.

Something is off.

Aside from the anger and determination to see me and Rhett rot in jail, there’s more in his blue eyes…

Desperation.

He’s having a hard time hiding it, along with the fear beading in a sweaty mist at his hairline.

“You think I hid her,” he mutters, revealing the face of a completely deranged man at the end of his wits when he meets my eyes. “She never got home.”

Color drains from my face for the second time this evening, his words pounding like a punch to the gut.