Chapter 3
They took me to the precinct first.
Not Vincent.
Me.
That told me everything.
Detective Morales argued in the club parking lot.
I heard his voice through the open cruiser door.
“You saw the text.”
Another officer answered low.
“I saw it. But orders came down.”
“From who?”
“You know from who.”
Morales looked toward the black SUV pulling up near the curb.
Chief Raymond Hale stepped out in a dark suit, not a uniform.
Silver hair.
Perfect posture.
The kind of man who looked honest on campaign posters.
Vincent walked toward him without cuffs.
My stomach tightened.
The chief shook his hand.
Not long.
Not obvious.
But enough.
Then he looked at me in the cruiser.
Our eyes met through the glass.
His face gave away nothing.
At the station, they put me in an interview room with a metal table and a camera in the corner.
My wrists ached from the cuffs.
My ribs hurt worse now that adrenaline was fading.
I kept thinking about Mia.
Her acceptance letter taped above our kitchen sink.
Her voice on the phone that morning.
“You don’t have to do this, Caleb.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No. You always think you do.”
She was right.
But tuition did not pay itself.
The door opened.
Chief Hale entered with another detective I did not know.
Morales was not with them.
That worried me.
Hale sat across from me.
“Rough night.”
I said nothing.
He folded his hands.
“Vincent claims you attacked his employees and attempted to rob the club.”
“Vincent texted you before the raid.”
His eyes did not move.
“Careful.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You’re a fighter with a knife in your hand and a betting table overturned. You think a text message changes what everyone saw?”
“It changes what you knew.”
The other detective leaned forward.
“Kid, help yourself. Say you lost your temper. Say the fight scrambled your head. We can make this simple.”
Simple.
That word always meant someone wanted you to swallow a lie whole.
“I want a lawyer.”
Hale sighed.
“You can’t afford one worth having.”
“I still want one.”
He stood.
“You’re making enemies you don’t understand.”
I looked up at him.
“No. I think I understand them perfectly.”
His smile disappeared.
They left me there for two hours.
No phone call.
No medical care.
No lawyer.
Just cold air and buzzing fluorescent lights.
Finally, Morales came in.
Alone.
He shut the door and glanced at the camera.
Then he reached up and turned it toward the wall.
My heart kicked.
“If you’re here to threaten me too, get in line.”
He pulled out his phone.
“No. I’m here because you’re not crazy.”
He showed me a photo.
Vincent and Chief Hale together at a charity golf event.
Then another.
Hale’s son standing beside Vincent outside the club.
Then a bank statement.
Monthly transfers from a shell company tied to Vincent to a consulting firm owned by Hale’s wife.
My mouth went dry.
“You already knew?”
“I suspected. Tonight confirmed it.”
“Then why am I in here?”
“Because if Hale thinks I’m helping you, both of us disappear inside his version of the story.”
I stared at him.
“What do you want?”
“The truth. And the video.”
“The hard drive?”
Morales shook his head.
“That system records to a cloud backup if the drive is removed.”
Hope hit me so fast it hurt.
“Can you get it?”
“No.”
“Then who can?”
He looked at me.
“You.”
I laughed once.
“I was backstage getting jumped. I don’t have Vincent’s passwords.”
“No,” he said. “But you know the girl who set up his livestreams.”
I froze.
Jessa.
Vincent’s tech girl.
The one who always looked away when fighters got shorted.
May you like
Morales slid my phone across the table.
“You get one call,” he said. “Make it count.”
