If the police can be bought, then it'll all come down to who's got the most power and influence. And Alan has us beat on that count.
The ride is silent. Apart from the gentle hum of the engine and occasional click of the signals, none of us makes a sound. A glance at the clock shows it’s late afternoon—on a normal Monday, I’d be finishing up classes and heading back to the dorms right now, not accompanying the cops to interview the man who threatened to kill me just hours ago.
I don’t know whether to be overwhelmed or numbed by the reality that has become my life.
Gray reaches over the console between us and rests a reassuring hand on my thigh, his palm warm against my jeans. All I want is to go back to the dorm and crawl into bed, bringing the Sinners with me and tearing off all our clothes as we try to shut the rest of the world out. I want to forget about Cliff and Alan and Reagan, want to forget about the bunker and the scars of my past that are being torn open again.
Alan lives north of Hawthorne, in an area where the mansions start to get even bigger and the cars start to get more expensive. I’m not sure exactly how long the drive will be, but Gray seems to know where he’s going, either because of the squad cars in front of us or he’s been to Cliff’s house for some reason or another.
Sure enough, a few minutes later, as those big fancy houses start getting farther and farther apart, not to mention bigger and bigger, we pull onto a private drive, flanked by immaculately trimmed hedges on either side. Alan’s house is at the end of it, behind an iron gate and tucked into its own little hill overlooking a private bay area, where just beyond, I can see a yacht shimmering in the sunlight.
I want to gag thinking about Cliff on that yacht, acting like a pretty little rich boy with all the girls flocking around him simply because of who he is. Simply because they like feeling noticed by someone like him.
A would-be rapist and a fucking asshole.
One of the cops up ahead of us rolls down the window and speaks into a little console set by the side of the driveway, presumably calling into whatever security or gate team Alan employs.
After a moment, the gate opens up, and we proceed down the driveway. The hedges open up to a grand entrance and manicured lawns. It’s a private little paradise far away from reality—and far away from a dirty, dark bunker where an innocent girl was once locked away.
Because God-for-fucking-bid Alan Montgomery’s home life ever get messy. He probably planned to kill me in that fucking bunker and then come back here and pretend nothing ever happened.
My stomach clenches, and I realize my hands have done the same, curling into tight fists.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Elias asks from behind me, worry in his voice. “You can wait in the car with one of us, and the others can go inside. You don’t have to face him if you don’t want to, Blue.”
I think about it for a second. Really think about it.
Do I want to go in there and confront the man who has held me hostage not once, but twice? Do I want to go in there and face the monster who stole everything away from me, who wants to kill me, who ruined my life?
Absolutely fucking not.
But I need to stand up to Alan, to show him that I’m not afraid of him. I need to prove to him that just because he captured me twice, he can’t make me fear to live the rest of my life. He can’t make me fucking run.
“I need to see him.” My voice is scratchy and rough. I’m intensely aware of each one of the marks left on my body by my struggle with Reagan and my attempt to escape. “I need to see his face when he sees mine.” I turn my head slightly, meeting Gray’s serious eyes. “I need to show him that I’m not afraid.”
He nods slowly, and we follow the police cars to the grand front entrance of the house. We park behind the cops, and Gray cuts the engine, the car thick with tension as we step out. The sun is warm on my skin, but a chill runs through me anyway as one of the officers rings the doorbell set next to the imposing cherry wood door.
The door swings open, and to my surprise, it’s not a servant or a butler that greets us.
It’s Alan.
Our gazes connect instantly, before he even takes in the uniformed officers, before he takes in the two police cars and the Sinners and Max. My heart stutters in my chest, pounding dully against my ribcage, but not an ounce of recognition flickers over the man’s face.
Not one hint.
After his gaze brushes over me for a split second, it’s gone. I realize when he starts to speak to the officers that he’s in casual clothes, his hair slicked back and wet, as if he’s just come back inside from a swim in the crystal blue pool we passed by on the drive up. He wears his age well, his body fit and toned—likely because he can afford the best personal trainers, dietitians, and plastic surgeons out there.
“Excuse me?” His brows draw together, and he shakes his head as a look of convincing confusion fills his expression. “What’s going on?”
“We need to ask you a few questions, sir.” Banning’s voice is respectful, even a little hesitant. “May we take just a few moments of your time?”
“Of course. Come in.”
Still wearing a look of vague confusion and concern, Alan ushers us inside.
We follow him into the house, filing in one by one, and my entire body feels tense and stiff. I feel like a feral cat whose fur is standing up on edge, teeth bared, ready to fight. The guys and Max all stick close to me, their stances angry and defensive.
Alan leads us into a sunny living room with stylish, expensive looking furniture. He gestures to a couple of couches and chairs gathered in the middle of the massive room.
“Please, sit. Can I offer you anything to drink?”
“No, thank you. We won’t take much of your time, Mr. Montgomery,” Banning says, pulling out a notepad and taking a seat. “We just have a few questions for you. Do you know this young woman here?” He points at me, then adds, “Miss Sophie Wright.”
Alan’s gaze brushes over me again, frighteningly blank and innocent. “No, I don’t believe I do.” His brows pull together in a sympathetic look. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve been through a lot.”
My jaw clenches so hard it aches. I want to scream, to lunge at the man as he settles onto his plush couch. I want to claw and tear at him until he admits that yes, he does fucking know me. He knew me a decade ago when I was a little girl, his captive. And he saw me less than twelve hours ago in a bunker, when he had me tied to a chair and was threatening my life.
I have been through a lot, and he knows it.
“Is there a problem?” Alan continues, looking at Banning when I don’t answer his question. “What’s this all about?”
Declan tenses next to me, as if he’s ready to lunge too. For a second, I almost wish he would. It’s torture to be sitting across from a man I know is guilty, hearing him speak to the police in a polite and polished tone, as if he’s nothing more than a concerned, upstanding citizen.
He’s a psychopath. A monster.
I want the whole world to see that.
But they don’t. Not yet, anyway. And if Declan attacks him before we get solid proof that he kept me captive, it’ll be me and the Sinners who pay for Alan’s crimes. We’ll look like the guilty ones.
Detective Banning looks like he’s seriously regretting letting Gray push him into coming here. He shoots Alan an apologetic look. “We’re very sorry to bother you, but Miss Wright claims she was attacked last night, and we need to ask you a few questions. This will only take a second. Do you mind if we get your answers on record?”