SEIZED Part 6: A Steamy New Adult Romantic Suspense Thriller (Seize Me Romance Fiction Series) Read Free Page B

Instead, I’m being wrapped in a bundle of red tape. I’m already on my way to the precinct. If I had time, I would stop at the guy’s office on the off chance he’s there. But I don’t want to be late—that would be asking for trouble, with my track record.
    Pulling in to the precinct, I swear under my breath. There are no parking spots left. It astounds me how quickly I’ve forgotten the place is crammed during the day. I turn out to the street and find a metered parking spot down the street.
    I straighten my collar in the mirror, and grimace at the thought of what’s coming. Nerves aren’t usually a problem for me, however today my gut is continually churning. Anything to do with IA bugs me. I don’t think there’s a cop out there that feels any different, though.
    I walk up to the main doors. Stepping into the precinct is strange. It’s the first time I feel I don’t belong here. I check in with Jacob, and she points me to the interview room where an IA representative is prepping. She tells me to wait at the door until he comes out for me. I pass by the room. I’ve never seen this guy before, but already, he looks like a smug hard-ass. I expect I’ll be subjected to the same intimidation tactics as the last time. They want cops under suspicion to feel as uncomfortable as possible.
    Before I get too wound up, the IA agent steps in the interview room. Without introducing himself, he points to the seat on the opposite side of the spot where he’s set up.
    “Have a seat, Detective Blake. I’ll be right back,” he says, and walks toward the cages.
    I sit and take a look around. The little red light of the camera in the corner confirms the feeling in my gut. The guy’s departure was intentional. He and his team are probably watching me through the mirrored window. This is serious, but whatever. They’re so predictable it’s somewhat comical. I lean back in my chair and loosen my tie.
    After a few minutes, he returns. His name badge says he’s Peter Schmitt. He finally puts out a hand to introduce himself, and takes the time to look me directly in the eye as he slides into his chair. I feel the hair on my neck prickle. This guy has a chip on his shoulder, and at the moment, as I’m in the hot seat, he has the upper hand.
    When he finally speaks again, his voice is cold and calculating. “Detective Anderson, I notice you’ve chosen to remain unrepresented. Is this correct?”
    What a prick. This guy won’t even acknowledge the obvious. And they call themselves professional.
    “No,” I reply, making an attempt at cordiality that fails instantly. I’m already feeling the heat of anger rise up. “That is completely false. I wasn’t able to reach my union rep with less than a day’s notice of this meeting, sir.”
    He types something into his laptop, scribbles a note, and then begins the interview without making eye contact.  He asks me to retell my story from start to finish. It’s a huge ask without my notes. I can store and recall a lot of information by memory, but I need my notes to be clear on dates, times and the precise sequence of events. Their trap, of course, is that any detail I’m not one hundred percent sure of will give them reason to grill me further.
    “I’d like to request the case notes.” I ask as politely as possible, although I already know he’s unlikely to hand them over.
    This time he graces me with a look in the eye. “At this point in time, Detective, we’d like you to run through what you remember, instead of what you wrote down. It will help us clear up some inconsistencies that need straightening out.”
    “Fine.” I straighten up in the chair and place my hands flat on the table in front of me.
    He must take it as some form of aggression. “If you’re going to be difficult,” he says, “you might as well start now.”
    The slight tilt of his chin pronounces the expression on his face—righteous indignation. He slips on a pair of harsh-looking wireframe