Chapter 11: Ruby - Keeping Knight

“I’m not sure if this is a good idea.”

Micah glances at Rogue for backup, but Rogue merely shrugs. “It’s not necessary,” Micah continues. “Ruby can read the report. She doesn’t need to watch the interrogation herself.”

“It’s Ruby’s case,” Rogue replies. “Her family.”

“I know that.” Micah’s jaw goes tight. “But what if it were Sofia? Would you want her to watch⁠—”

“I’m right here,” I interject. Irritation sharpens my voice. Well, that and the fear and anxiety that have been churning in my belly ever since we got the news this morning. “I can make up my own mind. I don’t need you deciding things for me.”

Micah turns to me. Contrition replaces his scowl of moments before. “Sorry, Rue.” He sinks down onto the worn plastic chair beside me. “I’m not trying to make decisions for you.”

From his position by the water cooler, Jester coughs loudly.

“I’m not,” Micah insists. “I’m just worried. You’ve already had to deal with so much, Ruby. And this isn’t going to be pleasant. At all.”

I take a deep breath as I try to work through the storm of emotions surging through me. I remind myself that Micah means well. It’s just his protective instincts on overdrive. “My stepmother may have tried to kill me,” I reply flatly. “So I think it’s pretty obvious this isn’t going to be pleasant.”

This being the interrogation we’re about to watch, which Rogue got us access to thanks to his contacts in the NYPD. And not just any interrogation, but one of my stepmother, who recently jumped to number one on the list of suspects in my case.

So, yeah. I’m not expecting anything positive. But I need to see it. I need to watch Sylvia as she answers the officers’ questions. I need to look at her face. I need to figure out if the woman I’ve known for five years could have done what she’s suspected of.

I don’t want to believe it. I may not have liked Sylvia much, and I never got the feeling she was terribly crazy about me, but attempted murder? Potentially twice, if it turns out she was responsible for the bomb at my apartment, as well? Which would make sense, unless there are two people out there trying to kill me, which I really hope there aren’t.

“Money is a powerful motivator,” Micah explained when I insisted it wasn’t possible that Sylvia could be involved. “People do terrible things for money. Things you could never imagine them doing.”

“But Sylvia has money,” I replied. “My dad left her the house in Suffern, and all the cars, and his life insurance, and there were accounts…”

“Not as much as your dad left you,” he said. “Right?”

No. My dad didn’t leave Sylvia as much as he did me. But that made sense. He and Sylvia had only been married for five years. Most of the money my dad made was from before that. Plus, he still had everything my mom had left him. It’s not like he was going to give that to his new wife. Of course, my dad would leave it to me.

Except maybe Sylvia didn’t think it was fair. Maybe she thought, as the wife, she should have gotten the bulk of everything. And maybe, after having stewed about it in the months since the will was finalized, she finally decided she would do something about it.

The money is the reason the police brought her in; along with the evidence Fox & Falcon gave them. While researching potential suspects, Rogue discovered that Sylvia had consulted a probate attorney on numerous occasions in hopes of contesting my dad’s will. I never knew, so I guess the attorneys told her it wouldn’t work.

If she’d only gone to them, it would have been one thing. But she talked to her friends about it. According to Wraith, who’s one of F&F’s top interrogators, Sylvia whined to her bridge club, her book club, her hairdresser, and her manicurist about how unfair it was that her greedy stepdaughter took all her money.

Still, I’m not sure that’s enough to prove Sylvia actually did anything illegal. I’m pretty sure it’s not, actually. It proves she’s even worse of a person than I thought she was, but that’s about it.

“Maybe it won’t be that bad,” Micah offers. “Maybe the interrogation will reveal something that clears Sylvia, and we’ll find out all this worrying is for nothing.”

“Maybe,” I reply weakly. But the sick feeling that’s been there since Micah got the call from Rogue this morning says otherwise.

I’d just been sitting down to work on a new manuscript, and Micah was getting ready to head over to the office to meet with the other employees in the canine services division. He kept apologizing for having to leave and explaining that he’d be back as soon as possible. “I’ve got Kurt coming over to guard the place,” he was telling me. “He’ll be outside by the elevator. But if you need him for anything, he’ll be happy to help. He’s a really nice guy. I think you’ll like him.”

Just as I was about to tell Micah that he didn’t need someone to guard the condo—it has a ton of security, and the elevator to get up here can only be accessed by the residents, so it’s not like just anyone can use it—his phone rang.

I didn’t think anything of it at first. But then I watched Micah’s smile fade into something far grimmer. Then he started to look mad. His posture stiffened. His hands tightened into fists.

My stomach swooped to my feet. I knew it had to be something bad. I just couldn’t imagine how bad it actually was.

At least, assuming Sylvia’s actually guilty. Maybe she’s not. Maybe we’ll discover it was someone else—a neighbor or someone from our cooking class or some person I’ve forgotten from high school.

I hope so. Because if it was Sylvia…

My dad would be so upset. He would feel so guilty.

A rustling sound to my right draws my attention to the plain-clothes officer standing in the doorway. He glances at Rogue and gives him a quick nod. “We’re about to start.”

Tension thickens the air.

My heart stutters. For a moment, I hold an inner debate with myself.

Do I really want to watch this? Do I need to? Or would a second-hand report work just as well?

But I’m here. I insisted on coming. What kind of coward would I be to back out now?

Micah stares at me for a second before leaning over to brush his lips across mine. “Whatever happens, I’m here for you. Okay?”

I nod. Then I take a deep, steadying breath. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

Almost in perfect unison, we rise from our seats. As we head towards the doorway, Rogue takes the lead, then me and Micah walking side-by-side, and Jester following behind us.

We walk in silence down a hallway lit by fluorescent lights. One is flickering unevenly, and the strobe-like blinks make my nausea even worse.

Micah reaches for my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. It helps a little. But it doesn’t ease the sensation of foreboding hanging over me.

About halfway down the hallway, the officer opens a door to our right. He waits for us to catch up, then gestures inside. “The window is one way,” he says. “And the sound is dampened in here. Unless you shout, the people in the interrogation room can’t hear you.” He turns to Rogue and gives him a warning look. “Nothing you hear leaves this room.”

Rogue nods. “Of course. Thanks for getting us in.”

Once we’re all seated, we sit in silence while we wait for the interrogation to start. Time seems to stretch on forever, even though my watch says it’s only been a few minutes. My palms get clammy. My heart pounds in my ears. Bile burns the back of my throat, and once again, I contemplate chickening out.

Then two officers enter the other room, followed by Sylvia and a suited man who I’m assuming is her attorney. The officers sit at one side of the table, and Sylvia and her attorney take the other.

I clutch Micah’s hand. Hard.

Through the speaker, one of the officers asks Sylvia, “Can you tell me your name and where you’re from?”

Sylvia glances at the man next to her. A beat later, he nods. “Sylvia Ashe,” she replies. “I live in Suffern, New York.”

And that’s how the interrogation starts.

The first few minutes are more basic questions like that. Where she lives, where she grew up, what she used to do for a living… and I can see her visibly relaxing as the interview goes on. I’m even feeling less stressed about it. I find myself thinking, There’s no way Sylvia’s involved. Whatever Micah and his friends are all worried about, they’re mistaken.

But then the questioning shifts.

“When did your husband pass away?” the officer I’ve nicknamed as the Nice Cop asks.

Sylvia tenses. “A little over a year ago.”

“How did it happen?”

My hands go clammy.

“A heart attack,” Sylvia replies after a brief hesitation. “They called it a widowmaker.”

Micah squeezes even closer to me.

“You must have been very upset,” the Nice Cop says.

Sylvia blinks. Then she scowls at him. “My husband died. How do you think I felt?”

“Then you found out about the will,” the other officer interjects. He hasn’t spoken much yet, but his features have been set in the same dour expression since the interview started. “Were you upset about that, too?”

She flicks a quick look at her attorney, and he gives her a small nod. “I wasn’t happy about it,” Sylvia replies, “if that’s what you’re asking.”

The dour officer—who I’m guessing is the Bad Cop of the duo—leans forward. “You were unhappy enough to consult ‌an attorney about the will. Isn’t that correct?”

“That’s confidential,” her attorney says with a frown. “Client attorney privilege. You know that.”

“What was discussed during the meetings is confidential,” Bad Cop retorts. “But what Mrs. Ashe told her friends about the meetings isn’t. Neither is the number of times she went to the attorney’s office. Or the large retainer she paid.”

“So what if I talked to an attorney?” Sylvia asks. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It doesn’t,” Bad Cop agrees. “Not on its own.”

“But combined with the other evidence,” he continues, “it makes you a suspect in our investigation. Which is why you’re here.” He levels a steady glare at her. “By your own admission, you were unhappy with the will. Why?”

Sylvia flicks a look at her attorney. He leans close to her and whispers something. She frowns before turning back to the officers. “I’d rather not answer that.”

“Come on,” Nice Cop urges. “Look, just explain it to us. If you were just upset, grieving… we understand that. But we need to know the specifics. It’s the quickest way for us to clear you.”

Or throw her in jail, I silently add. But I’m not surprised Nice Cop didn’t include that part.

After several seconds of silence, Sylvia sighs heavily. “I was grieving. My husband had just died. Of course, I was upset. But that has nothing to do with the will.”

“Why were you upset about the will, then?”

“I had concerns about its legitimacy.”

Bad Cop’s eyebrows jump up. “Its legitimacy? How so?”

Anger clouds Sylvia’s face. “Because David gave everything to Ruby.”

“His only child?” Bad Cop asks. “How is that unfair?”

“I was his wife,” she shoots back. “His wife. He should have left more to me.”

“But he left you money in his will, didn’t he?” Nice Cop presses. “Right?”

“An old house,” Sylvia replies with a scowl. “Some cars. A few savings accounts. But it didn’t come close to all of David’s assets. He had millions in the bank. Not to mention the camp in the Adirondacks, and the house on the Cape… What he left me was a pittance compared to that.”

The longer I listen to Sylvia, the sicker I feel. I always thought she was materialistic, but I never realized just how much she cared about my dad’s money. I thought she married him because she loved him. And now I’m not sure.

“Why did you think you could contest the will?” Bad Cop asks. “There have to be grounds. What did you think they were?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” her attorney interrupts.

Sylvia turns to the officer. Her face flushes with anger. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I went to an attorney because I think Ruby tricked David into leaving everything to her.”

“What?” I gasp. My heart slams hard. How could she say that?

“Tricked him?” Nice Cop cocks his head questioningly. “You think Ruby Ashe manipulated your husband into changing his will?”

“Yes,” Sylvia replies. “I think it’s very possible.”

“Sylvia,” her attorney says sharply. “Stop talking.”

She doesn’t even look at him. “No. I didn’t do anything wrong. There’s no proof that I did. So what if I wanted to contest the will? That doesn’t mean I tried to kill Ruby. The very idea of that is ridiculous.”

Bad Cop flattens his hands on the worn wooden table as he leans forward again. “What about the statements you made to your friends? In light of those, the idea that you tried to have your stepdaughter killed doesn’t sound ridiculous to me.”

“What statements?” Sylvia asks. Something dark and worried flickers in her eyes.

“That you blame Ruby for your husband’s death.”

Time seems to stop.

“What?” My hand comes to my mouth. “What?”

“You said it was a heart attack,” Bad Cop says. “How could that be Ruby’s fault?”

“Mrs. Ashe,” her attorney interrupts. He starts to stand. “We’re done here. Let’s go.”

“He was sixty-eight,” Sylvia replies. “Sixty-eight. And she pushed him to go on that hiking trip. She knew he was too old for it. But Ruby didn’t care. She dragged him up into the mountains, pushed him into hiking all day, and when he had a heart attack, he was too far from a hospital to save him.”

Shock slams into me.

My body goes numb.

“Mrs. Ashe,” her attorney barks. “Enough.”

“No!” She slams her hands on the table. Her face is bright red. “No! It’s Ruby’s fault. I told David not to go on that trip. I said he was too old. But he insisted. Ruby will be disappointed if we don’t go, he said. I can’t let her down. So he went. Because of her. And he died! If he’d been home, he’d still be here right now.”

“So you blame Ruby for your husband’s death,” Bad Cop states. “And you think she manipulated him into leaving her everything in his will.”

Sylvia stares at him. Her chin lifts defiantly. “Yes, I blame her. Yes, I think she pushed him into leaving her everything. But that doesn’t mean I tried to have her killed. There’s no proof. And you won’t find any.”

“Maybe,” Nice Cop replies. “Now. Let’s talk about the hiking trip your husband and stepdaughter went on.”

That’s the last thing I hear before the buzzing in my ears drowns out everything.

And with it, her accusations repeat.

She thinks I tricked my dad. She thinks I killed him.

My dad. The person I loved more than anyone in the world.

The memories of that horrible day come crashing into me with breath-stealing force.

Walking on the trail with him, talking about what we planned to grill for dinner that evening, joking about how he’d have a real hot dog instead of the turkey ones Sylvia insisted on buying. He looked so happy. And then⁠—

A sob threatens to escape, and I clap my hand over my mouth to stifle it.

Tears spill down my cheeks.

She blames me. She thinks I killed him.

“Ruby,” Micah starts.

“I’m sorry.” I jump up from my seat. “I can’t⁠—”

My vision blurs as I burst from the room. My chest feels like my heart’s been ripped out of it. My head throbs.

She thinks I killed him.

The memories rush back with breath-stealing force.

I’m walking beside my dad when his face suddenly drains of color. His smile drops. Then he grimaces in pain. His hand comes to his chest, right over his heart. “Ruby,” he gasps. Then he falls to his knees.

“What’s wrong?” I cry, falling to my knees beside him. “What’s happening? Is it your heart?”

I’m already grabbing for my phone. The reception isn’t good in the mountains, but a 911 call should go through, anyway. “It’s going to be okay, Dad,” I tell him. “We’ll get you help. It’s going to be okay.”

But it wasn’t.

By the time the rangers reached us, he was gone.

As the memories pummel me, I cry harder. I pay no attention to where I’m going. I can barely hear the voices behind me. All I can concentrate on is getting away.

At the end of the hallway, I shove open a metal door to find myself in a large room abuzz with activity. There’s a long desk at one end with two uniformed officers sitting behind it. Two more officers are standing nearby, talking to them. A row of chairs are lined up against the wall adjacent, with half of them taken. In one, a woman is holding an ice pack to her cheek. In another, a man in a blood-splattered shirt is scowling at his phone.

My feet come to a stumbling stop, and as awareness comes back to me, I swipe at my damp cheeks. Shame sweeps through me as realization sinks in. For all my insistence that I could handle this, I couldn’t.

And what about Micah? In my mad dash from the viewing room, did I lose him? Is he going to be upset when he finds me? Will he say that he told me so?

No. Micah wouldn’t do that.

As I think of him, I turn back towards the door I came through. I take a shuddering breath. I need to go back. Find Micah and his friends. Apologize, not just for running off, but inconveniencing them to start with. Because if I hadn’t insisted on coming to the station, they wouldn’t have had to take time out of their days to escort me. It wouldn’t have been a whole production to get me here safely.

“Ruby!”

The voice comes from behind me, sharp and demanding. Not Micah. Not Rogue or Jester. But one I remember all too well.

At the sound of it, my heart leaps to my throat.

I spin back around, my eyes widening at the sight of my ex-boyfriend.

Seemingly appearing from nowhere, he hurries towards me, his expression a mix of anger and indignation. Instinctively, I take a step back, and my back bumps against the door. Fear clutches at my chest. Though I never really believed he was capable of hurting me, there’s something new in his eyes that makes me wonder.

“Ruby,” he repeats as he closes the distance between us. Without preface, he demands, “What is this all about? Accusing me of assault? Attempted murder? Bombing?”

With each accusation, his voice rises. His eyes narrow. His hands clench into fists.

Get away from him, my brain orders. Find Micah. He’s got to be close.

But my body doesn’t want to obey. It just freezes, so I’m trapped between a metal door and my furious-looking ex-boyfriend.

“What the fuck?” Liam snaps once he’s an arm’s length away. His face twists. As he speaks, bits of spittle hit my face. “You told the police I attacked you? That I tried to kill you?”

“I…” Forcing my reluctant muscles to work, I reach behind me, searching for the doorknob. “I didn’t⁠—”

“So they targeted me all on their own?” he shoots back. “Come on, Ruby. I’m not stupid. I know you pinned it on me.”

As I scrabble for the doorknob, he moves closer. My gaze darts over Liam’s shoulder to the police at the desk across the room, but they seem oblivious. I’m not sure if they can even see me now, with Liam looming over me.

Panic steals my breath. Waves of hot and cold sweep through my body. My legs go weak.

I’m in a police station, I remind myself. It’s one of the safest places to be.

Is it though? a little voice in the back of my head asks. What about the guy who was killed during a fight at the station downtown? I read about that in the news only a few months ago. And what if Liam has a knife? He could stab me before any of the officers could reach him.

But there’s a metal detector. He couldn’t⁠—

Really, Ruby? the little voice asks. How many crime thrillers have you read? How many ways are there to sneak weapons into buildings where they aren’t allowed?

A lot.

My hand finally catches the doorknob, but my sweat-slicked fingers just slide over it.

Liam is less than a foot away. He’s close enough to smell the cinnamon gum he always chews and the lemon-pine scent of his favorite cologne.

“I didn’t say you did it,” I whisper, my throat too tight to speak louder. I hate sounding so scared. So uncertain. “But we dated. Of course you’d be a suspect.”

“The police came to my job,” he snaps. “My job. Do you have any idea how that looked?”

“Liam.” My hand slides across the metal doorknob again. “Back up. You’re scaring me.”

“Oh, are you going to accuse me of another crime?” he retorts. “Another assault?”

I cast a desperate look at the officers again. They’re laughing at something one of them said. Not a single eye turns my way.

Where is Micah, I wonder. Why isn’t he here yet? I thought he was right behind me. Why isn’t he⁠—

Liam’s lips peel back into a snarl. Then he grabs my arm with a bruising grip. “You fucked with me, Ruby. And you’re going to be sorry.”