Strict (Part Five) Read online

  Strict

  Part Five

  Hannah Ford

  Contents

  Strict

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Copyright © 2019 by Hannah Ford

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Strict

  (Part Five)

  Chapter 1

  GAGE

  I shouldn’t have pushed her like that.

  I’d brought her here for the specific purpose of making sure things wouldn’t get out of hand, so that she would feel comfortable before I took her back to my apartment.

  But dammit, I can’t seem to keep my fucking hands off of her.

  Jesus Christ, I told her what happened when River and I were younger, about how I got the scar on my wrist.

  I’ve never told anyone that.

  Ever.

  It’s this thought, along with the regret of what I’ve done -- pushed her so far that she had to safe word again for fuck’s sake -- that pounds through my head as I push through the door of the library and out onto the street.

  Chloe’s standing on the sidewalk in the glow from the streetlight, her hair tumbling down her shoulders in soft curls, her lips swollen from kissing.

  I start to say her name, and then I notice the police cruiser parked at the curb behind my car –the one driven by Warren, the one that brought Chloe here -- blue lights flashing over the pavement.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Warren says, glancing at the two policeman who are standing nearby. “They wouldn’t leave, and I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer.”

  I wave him off, then turn my attention to the officers.

  “What the hell is going on?” I take a step toward Chloe, then stop, not sure she wants me to come closer after what just happened.

  “Mr. Stratford, we’re sorry to interrupt your night,” one of the officers says, sounding like he’s anything but sorry, “but like we were just telling Ms. Cavanaugh, it was imperative we speak with her.”

  “About what?” I ask.

  “Brandon McArthur.” Brandon McCArthur. The man who murdered Chloe’s sister, Cassidy. “He’s escaped from jail. And we have reason to believe that he might be trying to find Chloe.”

  Chloe’s face has gone pale, and I take another step toward her. She looks at me, then takes a step back. A tight band of tension squeezes my abdomen. She’s afraid. Of me.

  “Then I assume you’re coming here to make sure Chloe is safe,” I say to the officer. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes, of course, sir. But we also want…we have a few questions we’d like to ask her.”

  “About what?” If they think they’re going to somehow intimidate Chloe into helping them find this Brandon McCarthur asshole, then they’re mistaken.

  She’s been through enough.

  Some of it because of you.

  The policeman turns back to Chloe, obviously sensing that appealing to her is a better way to win his case. “We’d like to talk to you about the letters that Brandon has been sending you.”

  Chloe flinches, her hands twisting together in front of her so tightly that I see her knuckles turn white.

  I remember Chloe telling me Brandon had sent her letters, but she never told me much about what was in them -- I have no idea if the letters would be helpful to the police or not.

  “Chloe, we’d like to take you down to the station.” It’s the second police officer now, a woman, her voice soft and soothing. “We’d like to see the letters Brandon sent you.”

  “Why was her fucking sister’s killer allowed to send her letters in the first place?” I demand, knowing that anger isn’t going to help here but not being able to stop it, either. “I would think that the New York City prison system would want to make sure that criminals are kept from contacting the relatives of their victims.”

  The first officer at least has the wherewithal to look slightly chuffed. “Chloe was on Brandon’s list of approved contacts.”

  I look at Chloe, but she doesn’t say anything, all but confirming that it’s true.

  Why the fuck would Chloe allow herself to be contacted by the man who’d killed her sister?

  It doesn’t matter.

  “She’s not going to the station. Not tonight.”

  “Gage,” Chloe says, smoothing down the skirt she’s wearing. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine,” I say. “You’re…” I trail off, shooting daggers at the officers. There’s no way I can say what it is that’s just happened to her, not in front of them. That she safe worded because I tried to have sex with her before she was ready, that I told her something horrible about my past, something that proved just how fucked up I am before pushing her to her knees and shoving my cock down her throat.

  Jesus Christ, you are one sick motherfucker.

  “We can give you a ride to the station,” the woman officer says, her voice soft and soothing, and she shoots me a glance, as if she’s letting Chloe know that I can be dealt with, that I can be left behind.

  “Okay.” Chloe nods. “Okay, yeah. Okay, I’ll go.”

  She glances at me, and I feel my heart pound, the longing that’s flowing through me so strong that it’s almost unbearable.

  “But I… I want Gage to drive with me. And to come with me.”

  “Of course,” I say, relieved. “Of course I will.”

  She’s quiet in the car.

  I watch her out of the corner of my eye as she pulls a compact out of her purse, checks her reflection and rubs away the tiny bit of mascara that’s under her eyes from when they watered when I shoved my cock down her throat.

  Her smudged makeup does nothing to diminish her beauty, and instead just enhances it, making her look like a tousled innocent princess who’s just awakened from a night of mind-blowing sex.

  “What do the letters say?” I ask her.

  “That he’s innocent.”

  “What else?” My hands tighten into fists on the leather seat under me, as much to keep me from hauling her toward me as to keep my anger in check as I think about whatever it is this asshole has been saying to her.

  “That’s mostly it. And, you know, that he’s trying not to waste the time he’s spending in prison. That’s he’s taking classes, that kind of thing.”

  I sniff. “I’m sure.” I imagine him sitting there, a demented killer, thinking of Chloe, thinking about how much she looks like her sister. “Did you ever write him back?”

  She shakes her head and puts her compact back into her purse, then pulls out a hair elastic and slides it around her hair, pulling it into a ponytail. The shiny strands move across the creamy skin of her neck, and I can see the red marks there from where I kissed her earlier. My cock twitches.

  “No. I never wrote him back.”

  “Then why did you allow him to write to you?”

  She pauses, taking in a deep breath as Warren pulls the car up in front of the police precinct.

  It’s dark, but not that late, and there’s still a lot of activity going on inside.

  Chloe takes a deep breath.

  “Because,” she says as she opens the door, not waiting for Warren to open it for her. “I think that maybe I believe him.”

  Chapter 2

  CHLOE

  He doesn’t touch me in the car. Doesn’t even hold my hand or hug me.

  I know it’s because I safe worded.

  It’s frustrating, bec
ause I don’t know why I safe-worded, exactly. My body was ready for him, wanted him more than anything.

  I climb the steps to the police station, Gage behind me.

  “What?” he says, sounding incredulous at what I’ve just told him. “You think this asshole is innocent? Chloe, come on.”

  “I didn’t say I think he’s innocent,” I say, pulling open the door to the precinct. “I said maybe he is.”

  We’re in a waiting room filled with olive-colored plastic chairs and scuffed linoleum flooring. A receptionist sits behind a plastic partition, a headset perched on her blond head, her hands flying over the keyboard of her computer.

  The waiting room is crowded– there are only a few empty chairs, the rest of them taken up with people who look to be in varying levels of distress. The sound of keystrokes and low voices come drifting out from somewhere behind the receptionist desk.

  The receptionist must have been told to expect me, because when Gage and I approach the desk, she waves me back, pushing a button that unlocks the automatic door.

  We’re ushered into a small room, the exact kind of room I’ve seen on all those crime shows, the kind where there’s nothing but a small wooden table and a couple of cheap plastic chairs.

  A camera is mounted on the wall, the red light blinking.

  For the first time, I start to feel nervous.

  “An officer will be with you shortly,” the receptionist says, startling me. I hadn’t realized she’d followed us. She shuts the door behind her as she disappears back to her desk.

  “This is bullshit,” Gage declares, pacing the room. “You know they could have done this at your house, right?”

  “You mean at my dorm?” I sit down in one of the chairs, trying to ignore the way it digs into my lower back. “That would have been real great, cops showing up at my room to interview me. Alanna would have had a field day with that, after …”

  “After what?” Gage prompts.

  I swallow and glance away, then force myself to look at him. “She knows about us.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t tell her,” I say quickly. “I haven’t told anyone except Grace.”

  “Who the hell is Grace?”

  “She’s my best friend from home.” Grace. Jesus. I should probably tell her what’s going on. I pull out my phone, and then hesitate. How does one tell their best friend not to go back to the dorms because a murderer is on the loose and so it’s probably not all that safe? It definitely doesn’t seem like the kind of information that should be conveyed in a text.

  I know she’s safe for tonight, spending the night at her friend’s house, so I compromise, just telling her to make sure she stays away from the dorm until I talk to her. I feel bad for a second for being so vague, but then I think, screw it. If she can be vague about the stuff that’s going on with her, then I can, too.

  “Alanna,” Gage says, obviously deciding that Grace isn’t important, at least for the moment. “What does she know?”

  “Nothing. I mean, she just suspects. She recognized you after that night at Strict, and now she thinks you’ve been giving me special treatment.”

  “Jesus, Chloe.” He scrubs his hand through his hair, leaving it tousled and looking even better than it did before. If I didn’t like him so much, I would hate him. “Why the hell didn’t you –”

  The door opens and the woman officer from earlier steps into the room, followed by another officer I’ve never seen before, this one dressed in a navy blue suit and wearing a badge that identifies him as Detective Grayson.

  “Chloe,” the woman officer says, giving me a warm smile. “Thank you for coming down.” She hands me a paper cup full of water, then looks at Gage, making no effort to hide the fact that she’s not happy to see him here. “Mr. Stratford.”

  “And your name is?” Gage grumbles, taking a seat in the plastic chair next to me. He winces as the chair presses into his back. “Jesus, this thing is going to give someone a slipped disc.”

  “I’m Officer Parnell,” she says.

  “This is bullshit, you know, you making her come down here like this. If you want the letters Brandon sent her, I’m sure Chloe would be more than happy to provide them to you.”

  “And I’m sure Chloe can speak for herself,” Officer Parnell says with a tight smile.

  The other officer, the detective, sits down across from us at the table, and shoots Parnell a warning look, the kind of look that tells her she probably shouldn’t be antagonizing their witnesses. Not that Gage and I are witnesses. I frown. What are we really? Persons of interest? No, that’s what they call people who might have been involved in a crime. I guess we’re just people who have information. At least, I am. Gage is just an… interested party.

  “First of all, I want to let you know that you’re not in any trouble,” Detective Grayson says, his voice kind. He gives me a smile, and I can tell he’s trying to put me at ease.

  “Of course she’s not in any trouble,” Gage scoffs. “She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “Right,” Grayson says. “We just want to ask you a few questions. Has Brandon McCarthur contacted you to let you know that he’s out of jail?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  Gage shifts next to me, and I can feel the impatience radiating off of him. He’s annoyed by the questions they’re asking me, annoyed that they’ve brought me down here. His knee moves up and down, his body filled with coiled energy and aggression.

  “Has he ever mentioned any of his plans to you? About trying to escape from jail?”

  “No.”

  The detective sighs. “Okay.” He seems frustrated, and I feel bad that I haven’t been able to provide him with any more information.

  “Why do you think Brandon is going to attempt to make contact with Chloe?” Gage demands.

  “Because he killed her twin sister,” Detective Grayson says, sounding like it’s obvious. “And he obviously has some kind of twisted idea that Chloe can help prove his innocence.”

  “No,” Gage says, his eyes flashing. “I mean what evidence do you have that he wants to see her?”

  “Oh.” Grayson scrubs his hand over his chin, like he’s trying to decide how much to reveal to us. “He told his cellmate he needed to talk to Chloe, that if he could convince her he hadn’t killer her sister, she could help him go free.”

  Gage’s eyes burn even brighter, seemingly with hatred, and I can’t tell if it’s directed at the detective or at Brandon McCarthur.

  “Okay, well, if there’s nothing else you can think of,” the detective says, standing up. “Then we’ll let you –”

  “There is one more thing,” I say.

  Gage shoots me a look.

  “It’s probably nothing,” I say, twisting my hands nervously in my lap. “It’s just that…well, there was something missing from my room. A bracelet that my sister gave me.”

  Detective Grayson sits back down, his pen poised over his legal pad. “When did you notice it missing?”

  “Um, earlier today. I thought maybe this girl who lives in my dorm, Alanna, may have taken it. But since it’s connected to my sister, I just… I wanted to make sure that I mentioned it.”

  Detective Grayson turns to Officer Parnell. “Check if there’s security camera footage in the dorms.”

  “There’s something else,” Gage says, his voice even.

  The detective looks at him, surprised. “Yes?”

  “The first day Chloe started working for me, I got an anonymous email. It included a link to information about her sister’s murder. The subject line was ‘The Truth About Chloe Cavanaugh.’ I never was able to find out who sent it.”

  Chapter 3

  CHLOE

  I’m livid.

  I’m able to hold it together until we get outside the police station, and then it becomes too much.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the email?” I demand as we climb into the back of Gage’s car, Warren holding the door open for us obediently.r />
  “I did.”

  “No, you didn’t. You showed me some print-outs of some internet articles that you had, but you never told me they were sent to you anonymously!” Not to mention the ominous subject line. The Truth About Chloe Cavanaugh? Wtf?

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it fucking matters! You didn’t think it was pertinent to mention it?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps?” I stare at him as he reaches for a bottle of water that’s in the side door of the car.

  “I should have mentioned it.” He hands me the bottle, and I take a sip. Now that my adrenaline from everything that’s happened is dissipating, the anxiety is creeping in. I’m so lost in my own thoughts that for a moment I don’t realize we’re not going back to the dorms until we pull up in front of a restaurant.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To eat,” Gage says simply, like it’s the most natural thing to do after leaving a police station where you’ve been questioned about your sister’s murderer escaping from jail. He slides out of the car and holds his hand out to me, and after a moment, I take it. He helps me out of the car and I stumble for a second on the curb before he steadies me.

  His grip is strong, his hands warm.

  I have the irresistible urge to lay my head against his chest, and I do, just for a moment. His body stiffens against mine, and then his arms envelop me as his hand moves up and smoothes my hair gently before he pulls back.

  “This isn’t a good idea,” I say as I follow him to the front of the restaurant. It’s the kind of place that looks dark and exclusive, with heavy drapes over the windows and a simple gold-plated sign bolted next to the door, with the name of the place, Gesseppi’s, engraved in simple script.

  Gage ignores my protests and heads inside, leaving me with no choice but to follow.

  The inside of the restaurant is dim, and even though it’s dark outside, it takes a second for my eyes to adjust.