I give him a smile and duck inside the tent. The material falls back into place behind me and I try to calm my racing heart. I might actually get away with this. Sure, my whole life is upturned, and I’ll have to go on the run but as long as I have my freedom, I can do what needs to be done.
I lift the camera and snap some photos, gathering as much evidence as I can. The body’s been removed, but a pool of blood sinks into the grass under the glare of the fluorescent lights. It doesn’t really matter that I can’t get photos of the body itself, the image of Camilla lying naked is still imprinted on my mind. The gash across her neck. The thin crosses cut into her chest. Twenty-three of them. One for every year I’ve lived.
I crouch down to take a photo of the blood. The scent of iron hits the back of my throat and my body seizes, a flashback pulling at my skin. I let the camera hang around my neck and press my cold hands to my cheeks. I haven’t had a flashback in so long, I can’t have one now. As far as I am aware my father hasn’t killed a single person since I faked my death. He has an unprecedented amount of control and restraint for a serial killer,and I have a feeling killing Camilla wasn’t a slip up. It was a message. He knows I’m alive.
I’m so busy trying to keep the panic at bay that it takes me a moment to realize I’m no longer alone in the tent.
My eyes snag on a pair of shiny black loafers and I dig my teeth into my lip. I follow his long legs up till I’m looking at Agent Park’s scowl. I swallow and shift my gaze to the person next to him. I’ve not seen him before. He’s ginger like me, his ruffled hair a couple of shades darker and his skin a freckled cream. He looks at me through a pair of wire framed glasses, disbelief flashing in his eyes. This must be the final member of Agent Park’s team. Oscar ‘Oz’ Reynolds, the tech guru.
“Well darn,” he curses, “You just lost me a bet.”
I stare at him. My brain is still a little stuck on how unfair it is for every single one of Agent Park’s team to look like a model. Dressed in chinos and a knitted jumper, the whole geek chic is really working for Oz. “What?” I say, when his words register.
“I told Jude you’re way too smart to return to the scene of the crime. He said emotions make people stupid.”
Well, given my almost-panic attack meant I didn’t see these two sneak up on me, I could hardly argue with that. I run a hand over my hair.
Agent Park is still glaring at me.
“What happens now?” I ask.
Agent Park steps forward. “Now,Angelica, you come with us.”
I tense but it’s no good, hearing that name again pushes me over the edge and I can’t stop the panic from rising. My vision blurs and I fall into a flashback.
“Slowly Angelica, nice and slow. If you go too fast, it hurts less.”
My little hand trembles as I hold the knife, blood welling at its silver tip. I try to pull away, but my dad covers my hand in his and digs deeper.
“Please,” she cries, “please stop.”
“Please, please stop. Please, please stop,” the words spill into the air, and I realize I’m the one saying them. I rock back and forth, hugging my knees until Agent Park appears in front of me.
He slips his hand around the nape of my neck and uses the other to cradle my cheek. “Look at me.”
I stare at the grass.
“Freya, look at me,” he orders.
I blink and our gazes collide.
“You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you.”
I wet my lips and study the specks of color in his eyes, hazel against a deep brown.
His hand squeezes my neck. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
This man is about to lock me up and throw away the key. I shouldn’t believe a word he says. But something about River Park settles around me like a security blanket and I feel safer than I ever have before.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Freya
THEY DON’T TAKE me back to the interrogation room. Instead, I find myself in Agent Park’s office, sitting in front of his mahogany desk. Bookshelves line the wall behind him, and paperwork is stacked in neat piles on the desk. I’d feel like a kid in trouble with the headmaster if it wasn’t for the fact I’m cuffed to the chair.
I’ve already scoped the place for escape routes but unless he’s hiding some secret door in one of the many bookshelves, the only exit is the door we came through. Said door leads back into an open plan desk area, sort of like the bullpen at my precinct but fancier, with glass desks and sleek computers. A large window to my left looks out over the city night lights, but I don’t like my chances of surviving a five-story fall. That’s if I even managed to get the cuffs off and make it to the window before Agent Park stops me.
He’s sitting on the other side of the desk, slowly spinning the knife he found when he searched me. His disapproval is heavy on my shoulders, but I’m too busy trying not to remember how it felt to have his hands on me. He was professional to a T, but my skin tingled all the same. It was the first time in a long time that I’ve been touched, and I know he felt it too because tension still fizzles in the air between us. I move my wrist up and around, testing my range of motion.
