Like Glass We Break (Glass #2) Read Free Page B

insists.
    “Fine.” Scott is led into the back of the car.
    The ride to the station is long. This is the first time Scott has ever been in a police vehicle and it’s far more uncomfortable than he thought it would be. He doesn’t deserve to be treated like this when Cora’s real killer is out there somewhere.
    “Are we there yet?” Scott asks impatiently. “I have to work tomorrow.”
    “Almost,” the driver replies. He isn’t the same officer as the one who asked Scott the questions earlier.
    “Why are you bringing me there?”
    “It’s procedure, since you were the one who made the call.”
    “I guess that makes sense.” The car is warm and Scott is sweating. He’s sure his light blue shirt is dark with sweat marks by now. He wishes he could just open the window and get some air but the officer doesn’t seem friendly enough to ask.
    “Okay. We’re here. I’m going to walk you in to the front desk and another officer is going to be asking you some questions, Mr. Reed.”
    “Okay. When can I go home?”
    “I have no idea. That’s not up to me,” the officer replies. He exits the car and opens the back door to release Scott, who is still wearing handcuffs. His grasp on Scott’s arm is tight as he leads him into the busy building. Though it’s late, there are several people behind the desk who seem busy doing paperwork. One woman stands.
    “Officer, bring Mr. Reed to Room C, please,” she instructs.
    The officer walks Scott down a short hallway and unlocks a door. The room is almost empty, other than a table and two chairs. It’s like something you’d see in a movie—a good old interrogation room.
    “Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Reed.”
    Before Scott can reply, the officer is gone and the door is locked. Scott is alone in the room. The walls are plain white. The furniture is black. Comfortable? How exactly could one make themselves comfortable in a place like this? Scott takes a seat, but within seconds, he’s back up and pacing the room. Seconds turn into minutes. Minutes turn into almost an hour.
    The door opens. An older man, with years marked across his face, walks in.
    “When did you last speak with Cora James?”
    “Aren’t you supposed to introduce yourself?” Scott asks.
    “I’m Detective Hughes. When did you last speak with Cora James?” he repeats, visibly annoyed.
    “A few days ago. We went out to a restaurant, we had a few drinks, and we went back to her place. She invited me in. We had sex. What do you want? Do you want the details? Why are you asking me this?”
    “And that was the last time? You’ve had no contact since then?”
    “No. She was busy. I texted her a couple times but she didn’t get a chance to reply,” Scott explains.
    “We checked her phone records, Mr. Reed. You texted her two hundred and eight times in the last four days, and she didn’t reply to any of them. Doesn’t that seem a bit excessive? You said a couple times. I’d say that’s far more than a couple. I’d say that’s a problem,” the detective says sternly. He studies Scott’s reactions closely without taking his eyes off of him.
    “You don’t know anything about our relationship,” Scott says defensively. He begins to squirm and sweats even more profusely than before. Beads are dripping down his forehead and landing on the front of his shirt. He looks as though he feels ill.
    “No, I don’t know anything about your relationship, so please—enlighten me. You told an officer that you had been dating for a couple months but according to her phone records, you had never sent her a text message prior to last week. Can you tell me why this is? Why you were dating someone for a couple months, but only started sending her text messages recently?”
    “You ask a lot of questions.”
    “Procedure.”
    “I’m not into texting. I’d rather talk face to face, you know? So things don’t get misinterpreted,” Scott insists.
    “Where did you first meet her?”
    “The café across