“I didn’t use a scalpel on him,” Harper said, her voice deadpan. “If I had used a blade, Detective, he wouldn’t be standing to make the accusation.”
Reed paused, deeply unnerved by the flat, factual delivery of the statement. There was no boast in it. Just a chilling statement of capability.
“Right,” Reed cleared his throat. “Well, he says you threatened him. Witnesses at the hospital are terrified to speak up against him. If you give me your side of the story, maybe we can knock this down to a misdemeanor. Community service. Anger management. You keep your freedom, but you lose your license. It’s the best deal you’re gonna get against the Prestons.”
“I want my phone call,” Harper said.
“You can call a lawyer,” Reed said, shaking his head. “But a public defender won’t stand a chance against the Preston family’s legal team. They’re coming for blood, Bennett.”
“I don’t need a lawyer,” Harper said. “I need to make one call.”
Reed groaned, pushed the landline phone across the table, and unspooled the cord. “Make it quick.”
Harper picked up the receiver with her free hand. She didn’t dial a local number. She dialed a twelve-digit sequence that Reed didn’t recognize.
“This is Sierra Seven-Niner,” Harper spoke into the phone. Her voice shifted instantly into a command cadence that Reed had never heard from a suspect before. “Code Black. Location: Seattle PD Precinct 4. Hostage situation. I am the hostage.”
She hung up and pushed the phone back.
Reed stared at her, utterly baffled. “What the hell was that? Who did you call?”
“You might want to get some coffee, Detective,” Harper said calmly, settling back into her chair. “It’s going to be a long night.”
Before Reed could respond, the door to the interrogation room banged open.
But it wasn’t another cop. It was a lawyer in a three-piece suit that cost more than Reed’s annual salary. Charles Whitlock, the Preston family attorney. He was slick, oiled, and possessed a smile that didn’t reach his dead eyes.
Whitlock didn’t even look at Detective Reed. He looked at Harper with a mixture of boredom and extreme disdain.
“Ms. Bennett,” Whitlock said, placing a heavy leather briefcase on the table and snapping the gold latches open. “I’m here to offer you a way out. A generous deal, considering the circumstances.”
He slid a thick, stapled document toward her.
“Sign this,” Whitlock tapped the paper with a gold-plated pen. “It admits that you suffered a mental break. It apologizes to Dr. Preston for your unprovoked attack, and it agrees to the immediate and permanent revocation of your nursing license, along with a gag order preventing you from ever speaking of this to the press.”
He leaned in closer, his cologne suffocating the small room.
“In exchange, the Prestons will drop the felony criminal charges. You leave Seattle tonight, and we never hear from you again. Everybody wins.”
Harper looked at the paper. It was a surrender. A confession to a narrative composed entirely of lies.
“And if I don’t?” she asked.
Whitlock’s smile widened, a predatory showing of teeth. “Then you go to maximum-security prison. Simple as that. We have the judges. We have the DA. You are a nobody, Ms. Bennett. You are a bug on the windshield of a very expensive car.”
Harper picked up the pen. Whitlock’s smile grew triumphant.
She spun the pen in her fingers, a habit from her sniper days when checking windage.
“You checked my nursing license,” Harper said softly. “But did you check my DD-214?”
Whitlock frowned, confused. “Your what?”
