I shrugged off his hand but gave him a terse nod. I wondered for the thousandth time if children were inherently accountable for their parents’ offences, if there was receipt of sinful debt written into our DNA, if we were karmically wired to live bad and do bad because it was in our blood. And not for the first time, I couldn’t answer definitively even though I’d spent my entire life trying to prove otherwise.
My distracted gaze focused on the room in front of me and I immediately frowned when I noticed who had replaced Sterling and Farrow in the interrogation.
“You murder anyone before, Miz Garro?”
The asshole interrogating me even looked like an asshole. Slicked back hair thick with styling cream, an even tan that spoke of artifice—either careful rotations sun tanning in his yard or even worse, at a salon. It was obvious he was no stranger to a salon either way because his nails were better manicured than my ratty-assed chipped black fingertips. I couldn’t stop staring at them as he moved his hands over a stack of papers meant to intimidate me. They were slim-fingered with perfect oval nails buffed to a high shine and palms so smooth I just bet he moisturized every night before bed.
“Not a stranger to being on the wrong side of the law, are you? Daughter of Zeus Garro. I just bet you were born with the thrill of rebellion on your tongue. Let’s see, we got some petty theft, physical assault charges, and destruction of public property,” the other officer, this one a smug looking, masculine brunette grinned thinly at me as she listed my crimes.
I shrugged one shoulder. “Honestly? I shoulda been given a medal for decapitating that statue of mayor Benjamin Lafayette. He was steaming piece of shit so really, I did a public service.”
The asshole awkwardly swallowed his startled chuckle, which made me like him more, but the lady cop sneered at me.
“Flagrantly disobeying the law isn’t a laughing matter, Miss Garro. And I find it interesting that you could retain your sense of humor after you claim that Taylor “Cricket” Marsden assaulted you and tried to rape you with his gun.”
I swallowed past the sudden swell of bile at the back of my tongue. I could still feel the press of metal against the inside of my thigh, how cold it was against the hot blood that seeped from my torn opening.
It would have hurt anyway, a comment like that, no matter that I’d grown up livin’ the kind of life that meant I’d been born with a thick skin that only grew more calloused with time. It hurt more that a woman was givin’ that shit to me. I may have been raised in a club of biker men, but it was their women who’d raised me and taught me that there was nothing so sacred as the bond between women.
“Not one for the sisterhood, are ya? Judging a woman on how she’s gotta move past something like that,” I said softly with a click of my tongue.
“Difficult not to judge a biker’s daughter with a rap sheet started when she was thirteen and now she sits there laughing about vandalism after she’s killed a man. For all we know, you like it rough and the one who got out of hand wasn’t him, but you with that knife and an opportunity to take a shot at a rival gang to your daddy’s.”
There was a loud bang from outside the door and asshole cop even shifted uncomfortably at her insult but I ignored it to casually lean forward over the metal table between me and Bitch Cop to say, “No one ever taught you a woman doesn’t have to act like a man to be powerful, did they? Us women, we got more power in our pinky finger than most men hope to wield in their entire lives. And a part of that power is supporting your sisters, believing them when they confess and supporting them when they fall. Shame,” I clucked again.
I watched with satisfaction as the lady cop progressed like a paint sampler from rose to vermillion red.
Then, I continued.
“And just to add, you aren’t half as smart as you think you are if you believe I’d date a man for four years, let him beat me and treat me like shit for the last two of those, just to wait until he finally tried to rape me in order to kill him for the betterment of my ‘daddy’s gang’? Which, correction again, bitch, is a fuckin’ club of motorcycle enthusiasts.”
I leaned back in my chair, trying not to let a wince of pain ruin my smug grin. Bitch Cop’s face was screwed up so tight she looked like an ad for constipation medicine.
“You’re done.”