Page 6 of Craving Venom
The room’s freezing, and I’m not sure if it’s the AC or just the vibe. Detective Ray Jordan—stocky guy, mid-forties, with a permanent scowl etched into his face—sits across the table, staring at me. I smirk at him, dipping a fry into ketchup.
“So,” he starts, flipping open a file. “Zane, right? Zane Valehart.”
I nod, chewing slowly. “That’s what it says on my birth certificate, yeah.”
Jordan’s eyes narrow. “What were you doing at your house when we arrived?”
I lean back in the chair, balancing it on two legs. The cheap metal squeaks, which feels oddly satisfying. “Eating a cheeseburger, I guess. Maybe solving world hunger in my spare time.”
He sighs, slamming the file shut. “Cut the shit, Valehart. You were at the scene of a crime.”
“Yeah, so were you. Guess we’ve got that in common.”
Jordan’s jaw tightens, and I can tell he’s the type that hates being outmaneuvered. He gestures to the fries. “Enjoying yourself, huh?”
I pick up another fry, wave it around, then pop it into my mouth. “I’d offer you one, but I don’t think your cholesterol can take it.”
He slams his fist on the table, making the cola in my cup ripple. “You think this is funny?”
I set the chair down on all fours. “I think it’s a fucking tragedy, detective. Alex was my brother.”
His eyes study me, trying to decide if I’m lying or just a world-class asshole. Maybe a bit of both. “So you don’t know how he ended up like that?”
I shake my head, reaching for the cola. “Nope. Wish I did. I mean, it’s not every day your brother ends up... well, you know.” I sip loudly, the straw making that annoying slurp noise when you hit the bottom of the cup.
Jordans’ patience is wearing thin, and it’s kind of entertaining. “How’d you find him?”
I shrug, spinning the cup on the table. “I walked in, saw him lying on the bed and called 911. Standard operating procedure, right?”
“Did you hurt Alex?”
“No,” I say flatly. “I didn’t.”
“Did you see who did?”
“Nope.”
“Zane, we’re trying to piece together what the hell happened here. The evidence is pointing us in your direction.”
“Evidence?” I cut him off. “Look, Detective, evidence can be a slippery little bastard. Sometimes it’s solid, and sometimes it’ll screw you over. You might want to double-check your sources.”
His lips twitch. It’s not a smile—it’s the kind of twitch that says he’s trying not to snap. I brace my elbows on the table, locking eyes with him like I’m daring him to make a move.
He adjusts in his chair, straightening up. “Zane, we’re here to get to the bottom of this. Your cooperation—”
“Cooperation?” I let out a sharp laugh, leaning back so hard my chair tips on two legs. “Detective, I’m an open fucking book. Ask me whatever you want. But fair warning—you might not like what you hear.”
“Fine. Let me ask you something I might like to hear,” he counters.
“Shoot, Detective.”
“Who has access to the key to your grandfather’s house?”
“My Family, house staff. No one outside the usual suspects.”
“And did you notice any unusual behavior from anyone? Inside or outside that close circle?”
“Nope. Everyone seemed peachy to me. Maybe it was a stranger. Ever think about that?”
