The cop who books me smells like soup.
Not a good kind of soup, but something with a funky, sour note, like feet. I get fingerprinted, have my mug shot taken, am frisked and asked about gang affiliations and communicable diseases, then I’m brought to a holding cell and told to stay put.
“When can I make my phone call?” I ask the cop.
“Soon as I work up the energy to give a shit.” He ambles off.
I’m alone in the cell. I sit on the hard metal bench against the cement wall and try to ignore the dark yellow stain on the floor in the corner.
An hour goes by. Then two. By the third hour, I’m beginning to wonder if there’s a police strike happening, because no one has come to see me. For a small crime like petty theft, I should be able to post bail and get out right away. They don’t have reason to keep me indefinitely.
But hour after hour goes by and no one comes.
Finally, about four o’clock in the morning, a new cop unlocks my cell. He’s big, with a shaved head and scary eyes. I decide not to take him to task for the delay and quietly follow him out of the cell and down the hallway.
He turns to an unmarked door and ushers me into a small room. The only furniture in the room is two metal chairs and a dented metal desk with nothing on it. He points at one of the chairs.
“Sit.”
I look around, baffled. The room looks exactly like one of those interrogation rooms from the movies. It’s stark white with bare cement walls, except for the one with dark reflective glass that people are definitely lurking behind.
“What’s going on?”
He says, “Sit.” It sounds like, “Ask me one more question and I’ll rip off your eyebrows.”
I sit.
He leaves, slamming the door behind him. A camera up in the corner near the ceiling stares at me with a red, unblinking eye.
After a few minutes, I turn to the dark glass wall. “Seriously? It was a bottle of tequila. Off brand. Are you guys having a slow night or what?”
Nothing happens. More time passes. No one comes.
Just as I’m about to start pounding on the glass and screaming about my rights as an American citizen, the door to the room opens. A woman walks in.
A pregnant woman.
That woman.
She’s dressed in a chic black suit that manages to make her belly look less like there’s a baby inside it and more like she ate a big dinner. She’s carrying a briefcase in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. She smiles warmly at me.
“Hi, Juliet. I’m Truvy. You can call me Tru. It’s so nice to meet y’all.”
Her Texas twang is soft and lovely, and I am going to tear her eyes right out of her skull.
Blood throbbing in my cheeks, I say stiffly, “What. The. Fuck.”
“I can see we’ll get along just fine.” She laughs. It’s a charming laugh. Soft, feminine, and charming. The witch.
She sits in the chair on the opposite side of the desk, sets her briefcase on the floor, pushes the cup of coffee toward me, folds her hands together in her lap, and takes me in.
I mean she really looks at me.
And I look at her enormous ruby and diamond ring.
My voice choked, I say, “You’re married.”
“I am.”
I close my eyes, draw in a deep breath, and curse the day I decided to raid that fucking diaper warehouse.
She says, “I’m also your attorney, in case you’re wondering.”
My eyelids fly open. I stare at her. I never truly understood the word “flabbergasted” until right now.
She knits her brows together. Her eyes are a stunning shade of pale green, like sea glass. She says, “Don’t look so surprised. Just because I’m from a tiny shithole town in Texas doesn’t mean I can’t argue the law. I’ll have you know I passed the bar on my first try.”
I want to burst out laughing. I also want a flamethrower. “How long have you been married?”
She beams, twisting her wedding ring with her thumb. “Seven months now. We went to the Civil Registry Office the same day we found out we were pregnant.”
“So we’re not pregnant.” I remember Killian’s disappointed tone that night he broke into my bedroom and want to retch.
Tru glances up at me. Her eyes are as soft as her voice. “We’re having a girl. We’re going to name her Maribel, after my mama.”
I almost break down and cry then. Almost. I feel the pressure behind my eyes, the sting and the pressure. But I refuse to make more of a fool out of myself than I already have, so I jump to my feet and start pacing.
After a few turns back and forth, I stop and glare at her accusingly. “So, what? He’s a bigamist in addition to being a huge asshole and a gigantic liar?”
She blinks.
I press my advantage. “Are you part of a cult? Some nutjob religious group that brainwashes women into becoming sister wives, some bullshit like that?”
She looks to her left, then her right, like she has no idea what’s happening and hopes someone will burst in and save her from the crazy woman. “Um…”
I scoff. “Don’t play coy with me. He sent you in here. You know exactly who I am.”
“Yes,” she says carefully. “And I’ve heard such nice things about you.”
I throw my hands in the air and shout, “And you’re okay with it? Jesus!”
“I’m sorry…okay with what?”
My laugh is dark and scarier than the eyes of the cop who put me in here. “Oh, you’re screwed up, lady. You need help.”
She frowns at me, sits up straight in her chair, and snaps, “Actually, you’re the one who needs help. And I’m here to give it. At four o’clock in the morning, no less. And I do not appreciate the snark, or the attitude, or whatever the heck it is you’re trying to insinuate.”
Instead of tearing all her hair out of her head like I want to, I fold my arms over my chest and stare at her, breathing hard. “I bet he tells you that you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, right?”
She says through a tight jaw, “As a matter of fact, he does.”
Bastard. If I ever see him again, I’ll pluck out all his pubic hair one by one with tweezers, then stuff it up his nose and light it on fire.
“And I bet he gives you lavish gifts. Ridiculously expensive gifts. Jewelry you can’t even wear in public because you’d get mugged in ten seconds flat.”
She stares at me. Her sea glass eyes are as hard as flint.
I say sarcastically, “Yeah. He’s great that way. Sooo generous. Sooo romantic. And what about Shakespeare? I bet he blows that Shakespeare smoke right up your ass, too, doesn’t he?”
She cocks her head.
“No? Oh, am I the only special one?” I laugh. I sound unhinged, like I’ve been mainlining cocaine.
She says, “Hold on a second—”
“And how about those accents, huh?” I cackle. “Oh, god! The Chris Hemsworth is totally my favorite! I mean, James Bond is a close second, but sweet baby Jesus, that Australian accent is the bomb, right? I bet he used that one on you the night he got you pregnant.”
All my hysterical laughter dies in my throat. I suck in a breath. It comes out as a broken sob.
Tru rises to her feet, pressing a hand over her chest. She says gently, “Oh, sweetie. Oh lord. You think I’m married to Killian, don’t you?”
I thunder, “You just told me you were married to him!”
She shakes her head. Clucks her tongue. Looks at me with sympathy. She rounds the desk between us and puts her hands on my shoulders. She gazes deep into my eyes.
She says softly, “I’m not married to Killian, sweetie. I’m married to his brother.”
It feels like she just punched me in the gut. “But…but I saw you. I saw you two, on the street outside the restaurant last night!”
She thinks for a moment, then her eyes widen. “He didn’t tell you, did he?” She sighs. “For heaven’s sake, that impossible man.”
I almost explode when I yell, “Tell me what?”
She waits a moment for her hair to settle around her face. “Killian and Liam are identical twins.”
Liam.
Killian.
Twins.
All the air is sucked out of the room. My heartbeat flatlines.
Tru smiles at the look on my face and pats my shoulders. “I know. I had exactly that same expression when I found out.” She crinkles her nose. “And that’s only the tip of the iceberg, I’m afraid.”
The sound I make is the same one a cat makes when it’s trying to expel a hairball.
“Maybe you should sit back down.”
She guides me to the chair then sits across from me again. We stare at each other. I think she’s waiting for me to go first.
I say weakly, “Um.”
“Liam said he knew the night Killian called to tell him about you that you were the one. He went on and on about how it felt like he was dying from cancer. Or something like that. It probably sounded better when he said it. Anyway, Liam had never heard his brother talk like that about a woman. He’s not exactly the settling down type, if you know what I mean. He’s never been serious about a woman before. Can you imagine? At his age? Personally, I think it’s incredibly romantic. I’m telling you, when the Black boys fall, they fall hard.”
She laughs her feminine, delightful laugh. “For such alpha wolves, they’re just marshmallows when it comes to their women. Oh, I can’t wait to get to know you better! I’ve got three sisters already, but I’d love to have a fourth. What fun we’ll have! Y’all will have to come visit us in Argentina as soon as you can.”
“Argentina. Um. Uh-huh.”
“You poor thing. I’ve crossed all the wires in your brain, haven’t I?” Her voice goes from sympathetic to brisk. “Well, Killian’s gonna get an earful from me, I’ll tell you what. Here, drink your coffee.”
She pushes the cup of coffee closer to me. I pick it up, but can’t find the brain power to remember how to drink. I just sit there and stare at her like a big dummy.
“Twins.”
Tru nods. “Identical. Nobody can tell them apart except me.”
I remember something Killian said to me one night when we were standing in his kitchen. I made a smart comment about his décor, the acres of black marble, and his answer sounded loaded, like there was much more to it beneath the surface.
“It was like this when I moved in.”
Then, during the same conversation, he asked me to call him Killian. Not Liam, the name everyone else knew him by. When I asked for an explanation, he said he couldn’t tell me.
Not that he didn’t want to, but that he couldn’t.
And now I find out he and his brother are identical twins.
I say carefully, “Tru?”
“Yes?”
“What does Liam do for work?”
“Oh, he’s retired.” She smiles mysteriously.
If I thought Killian had secrets in his eyes, this steel magnolia has got him beat by miles.
I drink the coffee in one long gulp, setting the cup on the table when I finish. Unsurprisingly, my hand is shaking.
Tru rests her hand on top of mine. She says softly, “It’s Killian’s story to tell, not mine. So I’ll let him tell it. But I can say this: I was sitting right where you are once. Well, not exactly right there. I’ve never been arrested for stealing cheap tequila—”
I say loudly, “I got it.”
“My point is that I know how confused you are, but you can trust him. With anything. With your life.”
I whisper, “But he’s a gangster.”
She leans back in her chair and gives me the secretive eyes thing again. “He’s a gangster like you’re a thief.”
“What does that mean?”
“I told you: it’s Killian’s story to tell. But, sweetie, if you’ve been giving him a hard time about his line of work…be prepared to do some apologizing.”
“Seriously? Does anyone in your family not talk in riddles?”
She laughs. “If you’re lucky, pretty soon you’ll be talking in riddles, too.”
My voice climbs. “Lucky?”
She picks up her briefcase and stands, smiling. “C’mon. Let’s get you home. I’m sure you can use some sleep. When Killian gets back from Prague tomorrow, he can tell you everything.”
“Prague?”
She looks at me with raised brows. “You didn’t think he’d send anyone else if he were in the country, did you?”
“I didn’t think anything. Because I am no longer capable of comprehensible thought. Because…Killian.”
She says drily, “Trust me, I understand.”
I rise, blinking, utterly confused. “Didn’t you just tell me you lived in Argentina? Or am I hallucinating that, too?”
“We wanted to visit before the baby was born. We arrived last week. And I can’t tell you how many times your name has come up in conversation. Killian keeps pestering me for examples of what drives women crazy.”
I’m momentarily horrified. “What, like in bed?”
“Ha! No. If he’s anything like his brother, he’s got that covered, I’m sure. He asks about what kinds of things will make a woman want to push a man into traffic.”
Relieved, I mutter, “He’s got that covered, too.”
“I think he’s trying to annoy you less.”
“I don’t think that’s humanly possible.”
We leave the room and walk down the corridor. I feel like I’m in a dream. A strange, nonsensical dream, featuring car chases, pregnancy scares, gang shootouts, and unicorn ponies.
Tru’s already posted my bond, so I just have to complete some paperwork before I’m released. Then I’m following her down the front steps of the police station toward the waiting SUV, still in a fog.
Which is why it takes me longer than it usually would to react when the men step out of the shadows around the side of the building.
They grab me.
I open my mouth to scream, but the chemical-smelling cloth is already smashed over my nose and mouth.
As my legs turn to Jell-O and the world fades to black, one of the men says something to the other in a language I don’t recognize.
But I don’t have to recognize it to guess that it’s Serbian.
