“I’m done answering your questions.” He tossed back a tight smile. “At least, not unless my lawyer gives the all-clear, and after I tell him about this conversation, he won’t.”
Now she did rise. Slowly. “I want a sample of your DNA. It will help us to clear up—”
“No, no! You’re not getting anything else from me.”
Monica’s head tilted to the right. “I thought you didn’t have anything to hide.”
“Yeah, well, that was before I realized you don’t give a shit what I’ve been through. You’re just looking to make your damn case.” He wrenched open the door. “You don’t get it, do you? I thought I’d die in that shithole. And when they started working on me, I wanted to die.”
Then he stormed away. Monica turned around to look at the mirror. No, to look at me.
I wanted to die. Quinlan’s last words. Words she understood too well.
Sam rushed for the door. She stepped into the hallway and appeared right in Quinlan’s path. He stumbled and nearly plowed into her. She threw up her hands, stopping him, and freezing them both. “You’re going to get past this.” Her words blurted out.
He gave a rough laugh. “Bullshit.” Quinlan tried to brush past her.
Sam’s right hand curled around his arm. “You survived.” She’d been told all of this once, too, but…
I didn’t understand then.
“I killed my father.” His eyes glittered at her. “I wake up every night, and you know what I hear? That gurgle he made when I drove the knife into his throat. I hear that sound, and it makes me sick.”
Monica had left the interrogation room, and she stood back, watching them. Sam ignored her. “You need to see a shrink. Start therapy right away.”
“Screw therapy.” Quinlan wrenched away from her. “Some things, some people, can’t be fixed.”
“And some can.” She took a deep breath. “You’re not alone, Quinlan. Your brother cares about you. He’ll be with you every step of the way.”
He threw a glance back over his shoulder at Monica. “What do you care? You got the bad guys. Go slap yourself on the back and leave me alone.”
Not that easy. “Don’t you want to know why?” she asked. “Why they picked you? Why they did all of this to you?”
“I know why.” His lips twisted. “I’m an unlucky ass**le. Always have been.”
Quinlan walked down the hallway, his wounds slowing his steps, but he kept his head up. Then he was gone.
“Is that what you wonder?” Monica asked softly as she moved up close to Sam. “Do you wonder why the Watchman took you that day?”
Sam met her gaze. “I wonder a lot of things, but not that.” Right place, perfect victim. He’d been ready for her, but she definitely hadn’t been prepared for him. She glanced at her watch. Max would still be in interrogation. Well, maybe. “Excuse me, I need to—”
“Do you still have nightmares?”
Was that her friend asking? Or was it the senior agent who reported directly to Hyde? Sam swallowed. “This isn’t about me.”
“You can’t get over hell so fast. You can’t, and Quinlan can’t.”
True. “I have to go.” Sam hurried down the hallway and almost missed the soft—
“I can’t.” The words slipped from Monica’s lips.
“Did your brother tell you how he came to be in possession of the knife?” Dante asked.
Max stared back at him. “I didn’t ask. The guy hasn’t exactly been in a talking mood. He lost his father, and he’s grieving.” And Quinlan shouldn’t be at the station. The press would be out there, waiting like vultures to catch the money shot—a photo of Quinlan’s damaged hand to splash in the papers and magazines.
Dante stared down at his notes. “The surviving victims indicated they were tied at all times.”
Max rolled his shoulders. “Then I guess they were, but Quinlan must have worked loose.” That was the only thing that made sense. “He found the knife they’d been using on him, and he got ready for some payback.”
But Quinlan hadn’t got his payback. Frank. Talk about screwed up timing.
“The only fingerprints on the knife were Quinlan’s,” Kim Daniels said. “We also found traces of his blood on the knife. Frank’s blood, of course, and Quinlan’s.”
“Because they used it to carve him up, and they were smart enough to wear gloves while they did it.” Come on, they knew this. The agents weren’t idiots.
“Our ME noticed something… odd about the slashes on your brother’s chest.” Dante slid a picture across the table. A photo of Quinlan’s torso that must have been taken at the hospital before the wounds had been bandaged. “Do you see this…?” He pointed to the lower left-hand side of Quinlan’s stomach. “The wounds are deepest here, then as the line angles up diagonally, the wounds become shallow.”
“So?” Damn, there were at least five long slashes on Quinlan. His brother hadn’t complained of the pain. Not once.
“The wounds weren’t deep enough to hit any major organs—”
“So either the bastard got lucky or he knew what he was doing,” Max snapped and shoved the picture away. He didn’t want to look at his brother’s torn body.
Dante steepled his fingers together and leveled a hard stare at him. “Based on the entry depth of the wounds and the angle, our ME thinks it’s possible the wounds were self-inflicted.”
Red coated his vision as Max leapt to his feet. “That’s bullshit!”
The door squeaked open behind him. Max spun around and found Samantha standing in the doorway. Her gaze darted from him to Luke.
“Did you know about this?” Max demanded and stabbed a finger at the gory photograph. “Did you know they were going to say Quinlan cut himself? Hell, I guess he kidnapped himself, too, huh?”
Silence from Dante and Kim.
“What are you talking about?” Samantha asked and she stepped toward him. “I haven’t heard—”
“Brantley took a look at the photos for us,” Kim finally said. “He thinks the wounds could have been self-inflicted.”
Could have. Shit. “And they could have been made by a sick freak who was torturing him,” Max blasted.
Samantha crept closer and stared down at the photo.