Damn him. “Max isn’t hiding anything.” She’d finally found someone she could trust, and she’d be damned if she violated his trust now. Even for the job.
“We’ll see,” Hyde said.
Sam turned away.
“I want you to watch that interrogation,” he said again with steel beneath his words. “Do your job, Kennedy.”
Fine, but she’d do it her way.
• • •
“Are we going to get started any time soon?” Max flicked a glance at the black watch that circled his wrist. “I’ve got contractors waiting on me.”
“We won’t keep you too long, Mr. Ridgeway,” Luke Dante murmured as he pulled out his chair. He dropped a fat stack of folders onto the table. “We just have a few questions.”
Max’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve already asked me a shitload of questions.”
“And I’m going to ask some more.” A sharp smile from his least favorite FBI agent.
“Where’s Samantha?” His gaze tracked to the mirror behind him. Was Samantha in there, watching him? He’d left her place before dawn so he didn’t know if she was even at the Bureau yet.
“I’m certain that Agent Kennedy is on the premises.” Luke flipped open a folder while the other agent, Kim Daniels, leaned near the back wall, her arms crossed over her chest. “Now, if you’ll be so good as to answer my questions?”
He threw his hands up. “Go right ahead.”
“And you don’t want a lawyer?” Daniels pressed.
“Don’t need one.” Because he hadn’t done a damn thing wrong. Not this time.
Quinlan Malone looked like death. Sam stared through the two-way mirror, her eyes on the man as he sat hunched at the small table in Interrogation Room One.
“Mr. Malone,” came Monica Davenport’s smooth voice, “are you certain you don’t want a lawyer present?”
“I’m the victim.” He rocked forward a bit in his chair. His bandaged hand rested on the top of the table, a silent reminder of his hell. “Not a damn criminal. I don’t need a lawyer in here with me.”
“Right.” Monica opened one of her files.
Sam adjusted the volume control. The interrogations were being video-recorded—they always were at the FBI office—but she didn’t want to watch from the control room. She wanted to watch here, where she could see every move and catch every flicker of expression instantly.
“Please tell me about the night of your abduction,” Monica said.
Quinlan drew in a shuddering breath. “I-I was at The Core. My brother was there—”
“Max Ridgeway?”
“Yeah, yeah, he was there… with his new girl.” Quinlan’s lips twisted. “That agent.”
“You’re referring to Samantha Kennedy?”
“I’m referring to the redhead with the sexy smile.” A shrug of his shoulders. “Didn’t get her name then.”
Sam stared at him. Both of his hands were flat on the table now, and the bandages appeared a stark white.
Monica didn’t bat so much as an eyelash. “I’d like a list of the people you talked to at that bar.”
Another shrug. “After my brother left, I hooked up with—with—a woman.” Quinlan’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “Blond hair, I think. And she was… she had on a black dress.” His breath huffed out. “I know I met a girl but I can’t remember her, not really.”
“What is the first thing you remember after being at The Core?”
His head rose. For a moment, his gaze flickered toward the mirror, then back to Monica. He lifted his left hand. “Some ass**le cutting off my finger.”
It would be hard to forget that.
“I passed out after a while.” Rough, gravelly. He cleared his throat. “Woke up a few times, and it was always dark. I think—I think I must have been blindfolded. I never saw anyone, just heard their voices.”
“Their?” Monica pounced.
“Yeah, yeah, some guy who always whispered. The bastard kept saying he’d ‘see how much I was worth,’ and there was a girl with him, a woman. When he went to work on my hand, I think she tried to stop him.” Softer, he said, “I think she tried to.”
“So you heard her voice?”
His eyes narrowed. “I heard a woman. I know I did.”
“And what did she say?”
He stared back at her. The moments ticked by in tense silence.
Then quietly, “Tell me this, Mr. Malone,” Monica leaned toward him. “Did you know Adam Warrant?”
Quinlan reached for his glass of water. The guy nearly drained it dry in two gulps. “You already know I did.”
“What about Jeremy Briar?”
“I—”
“Here’s his picture.” Monica slid a photo across the table at him. “It’s a picture of him, with you. Taken last year at a frat party at Melline University.”
His gaze was on the photo. “He’s dead, too.”
“Three dead victims, three survivors.” Her nails tapped on the table. “You’ve read the stories, so I know you’re aware of the other two survivors.” Monica waited a beat then asked, “Do I need to show you the photos or are you going to admit that you knew them, too?”
His gaze jumped to the mirror once more. Anger tightened his features. “I know what you’re doing. I’m not the f**king criminal!” He shot to his feet. “I’m the one those ass**les tied to a chair. I’m the one they tried to cut open! Look at me!”
Monica was looking. So was Sam. Looking and seeing rage and fear.
“You knew them all,” Monica said softly. “Isn’t that a big coincidence?”
The chair fell backward and hit the floor with a clatter. “I don’t remember Scott Jacobson.” His voice fired out at her. “Yeah, I remember having a class with Greg Tyler my freshman year, but I haven’t seen the guy since.”
“You’re the only link we’ve found between the victims so far.”
“I’m not the one you need for this.” His breath expelled in a frustrated rush. “Maybe we all hooked up with the same girl. Maybe we pissed off the same psychotic ass**le.” He spun away and headed for the door. “It’s not just me. There’s another link. Do your job and find it.”
“I have more questions, Mr. Malone.” Monica’s voice remained low and calm, and she didn’t get out of her chair.