Chapter 3 3

The black Maybach pulled up to the curb outside the NYPD 84th Precinct.

Forrest stepped out of the car. He adjusted his expensive Tom Ford suit jacket and slid a pair of dark sunglasses over his eyes. He looked at the dirty brick building with absolute disgust, as if just breathing the air here was beneath him.

Carmen's soul drifted right behind him. She wanted to see his face when the police showed him the blood.

Forrest walked into the chaotic bullpen. He demanded to see whoever was in charge. A young officer pointed him toward a glass-walled office in the back.

Captain Marcus Frobisher was waiting for him. Frobisher was a heavy-set man with graying hair and tired eyes. He didn't stand up when Forrest walked in.

Forrest took off his sunglasses and tossed them onto Frobisher's messy desk.

"Captain Frobisher, I assume?" Forrest said. "I believe my lawyers have already called you. This entire situation regarding Carmen is a gross waste of police time."

Frobisher raised a thick eyebrow at the word "Carmen." He didn't argue. He simply reached into a manila folder and slid three photographs across the desk.

The photos were heavily redacted with black marker, but the sheer amount of crimson red covering the concrete floor was unmistakable.

Next to the photos, Frobisher placed a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside was Carmen's ID card.

Next to that, he placed another bag. It held Carmen's limited-edition Hermes Birkin bag. The pristine white leather was soaked in dried, dark brown blood.

Forrest stared at the bag. The muscle in his jaw ticked. His pupils contracted for a fraction of a second, a cold, suffocating flash of genuine panic striking his chest. But he ruthlessly forced it down, refusing to let the police see him lose control. He hardened his gaze.

"Find her," Forrest said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy register. "I want to see exactly what kind of sick game she is playing to get my attention."

Frobisher looked at Forrest like he was looking at an alien.

"Mr. Richmond," Frobisher said slowly. "There was a massive amount of blood at that scene. The medical examiner gave a preliminary report. Based on the volume, no human being could survive that kind of blood loss."

Forrest scoffed. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs.

"It's animal blood," Forrest said confidently. "Or she bought blood bags. She was the star of her theater club in college. She loves dramatic effects."

Hovering near the ceiling, Carmen felt a surge of rage so violent it made the overhead fluorescent lights flicker. He was taking her devotion, her pain, and twisting it into a psychotic performance.

Forrest opened his mouth to continue his lecture on Carmen's "histrionic personality," but the office door slammed open.

Brooke Carpenter stormed into the room like a hurricane.

Brooke was Carmen's best friend. Her mascara was smeared down her cheeks. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen from crying. She had rushed straight from her apartment after getting the police call.

Brooke saw Forrest sitting there, looking perfectly calm and arrogant.

"Forrest Richmond! You absolute bastard!"

Brooke lunged forward. Before the police could stop her, she swung her arm and slapped Forrest across the face.

The sharp crack echoed through the entire bullpen. Every cop stopped typing.

Forrest's head snapped to the side. He froze. In his entire life of wealth and privilege, no one had ever dared to strike him.

He touched his stinging cheek. He turned back to Brooke, his eyes dark with fury. "Are you insane?"

Brooke pointed her finger aggressively at his chest. Tears spilled over her eyelashes.

"Am I insane?" Brooke screamed. "Carmen is missing! There's blood everywhere! And I heard you out in the hall telling them she's faking it? Do you have a heart in that chest, or is it just a cash register?"

Forrest stood up, towering over her. "She is faking it, Brooke. And you're enabling her delusions."

"She sent me a text last night!" Brooke yelled, slamming her hands on Frobisher's desk. She turned to the Captain. "She texted me at 10 PM! She said her stomach was in excruciating pain and she was going to the hospital! She wasn't faking anything!"

The word hospital hit Forrest like a physical blow.

His arrogant expression shattered. His face went completely pale. He remembered the stomach pain. He remembered exactly why she had that pain.

Frobisher, a veteran cop, instantly caught the flash of panic in Forrest's eyes.

Brooke wasn't done. She turned back to Forrest, sobbing openly now.

"She loved you until she had nothing left of herself!" Brooke cried. "You emotionally abused her for years! Everyone saw it, but she defended you! And now she's bleeding somewhere, and you call it a show? You don't deserve to breathe the same air as her!"

The cops in the bullpen were glaring at Forrest now. The disgust in the room was palpable.

Forrest's face flushed dark red with embarrassment and rage. He pointed a shaking finger at Brooke. "Get this crazy woman out of here!"

Frobisher stood up. He didn't look at Brooke. He looked dead at Forrest.

"Mr. Richmond," Frobisher said, his voice dropping an octave. "I am officially making you a person of interest in this case. I need you to tell me exactly where you were last night, minute by minute."

Forrest's breath hitched. For the first time, he realized his money couldn't buy his way out of this room.

Up above, Carmen watched Brooke cry for her. It was the first warmth she had felt since she died.