Page 7 of Craving Venom
Jordan lets out a sharp exhale through his nose, the kind that says I’ve just hit a nerve. “We’ve done our homework, Zane. It wasn’t a stranger.”
“Oh, you’ve done your homework, huh? Gold fucking star for you.”
He doesn’t rise to the bait, but his jaw flexes. “The locks weren’t picked. The alarms weren’t triggered. And in a house as big as your grandfather’s, breaking in isn’t exactly child’s play. Whoever did this knew the layout. Knew how to get in. That narrows the list down to someone on the inside.”
“So what are you saying, Detective? You pointing fingers at me now?”
“You’re about to acquire the Valehart estate as your family’s inheritance, aren’t you?”
“It’s already set to be in my name. Few months from now, on my 17th birthday. Not that it’s any of your fucking business.”
“That’s a lot of pressure for a teenager. A lot of money. A lot of responsibility. I imagine some people wouldn’t think you’re ready for it.”
“Oh, so now we’re psychoanalyzing me? Is this where you tell me I’ve got daddy issues and secretly hate my family?”
“Watch your mouth, kid. I’m giving you the chance to explain yourself here. Your reactions tell me a lot, Zane. Maybe more than you realize.”
“You see, Detective, the truth is often obscured by the fog of perception. What you perceive as indifference might just be my way of protecting myself.”
“Zane, you’re playing with fire here. The fallout from your choices could be hellacious. Think about that.”
“I’m always prepared to face the consequences of my actions. But remember, you’re the one who approached the flame.”
Detective Jordan tightens, his grip on his pen, betraying his mounting frustration. He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine for any hint of vulnerability.
Finally, he leans back, his expression a mixture of resignation and determination. “We’ll continue this conversation, Zane. The truth has a way of revealing itself, no matter how well it’s hidden.”
The view from my window isn’t bad.
Sure, it’s nothing like the rolling estates I grew up with, but for a place that prides itself on crushing your soul, it’s decent enough. Razor wire glints under the sun, looped so meticulously it’s almost art. The watchtowers stand tall, their blackened windows hiding eyes that think they’re watching me.
They’re not.
The yard below is a patchwork of cracked asphalt and scrubby dirt. A few guys cluster around the weights, grunting like they’re lifting mountains, while others play cards at a splintered table that looks like it’s seen one too many shank fights. A handful of new fish keep to the edges. Smart. They’ll last longer if they don’t act like they’ve got something to prove.
A crow lands on the fence, its beady eyes scanning the yard like it’s looking for trouble. It squawks once before flapping off into the sky. This bird is better than inmates because at least it knows when to stick around and when to leave. A lot of people here could take a lesson from that.
The door to my cell opens with a metallic groan, and I don’t even bother turning around. Only one person would walk in uninvited and expect me to give a shit.
“Breakfast time, Zane,” Kyle announces.
I smirk, finally glancing over my shoulder. “Did you bring it to me, or do I have to mingle with the locals?”
He sighs, holding up a tray. “You’ve got to stop skipping meals.”
“I eat,” I reply, pushing off the frame and sauntering toward him. “Just not your slop.”
He sets the tray down on the table and crosses his arms, clearly trying to look intimidating. It’s cute. “You’re lucky, you know. Most guys in here don’t get special treatment. But then again, most guys don’t have a grandfather who practically built the place.”
I stop mid-step, amusement tugging at my lips as I lean lazily against the table. “Ah, Alfred VonKrauss. The great architect of society’s punishment. The man who turned stone and steel into a monument of justice.” I tap the edge of the tray, my smirk growing sharper. “And here I am, his grandson, enjoying room service. Poetic, isn’t it?”
“He did more than just build it, Zane. He laid the groundwork for reform. For second chances.”
“It’s still a cage, Kyle. Doesn’t matter whose name is on the blueprints or whose blood runs in my veins. A cell is a cell. And the great Alfred VonKrauss can’t polish these bars enough to make them anything more.”
“You talk a big game for someone locked behind bars. Maybe that blood of yours gives you some leeway, but don’t think for a second you’re untouchable.”
I laugh as I pluck a piece of toast from the tray. “Untouchable? Kyle, I’ve been touched more times than I can count. By lawyers, judges, cops… oh, and your wife.”
