Witness

21. Chelsea

The silence in the car is deafening. 

Damien's hands are white around the wheel and he's only breathing through his nose. Not for the first time this evening, I'm fearing for my life. 

We could be going anywhere. Back to his house, to another police station, to a prison. My brain has convinced me that Damien Mierro is turning me in for my part in James Hartley's coma. 

My only salvation is Kaiden Beckett, who not only hates me, but is probably the least trustworthy person in this entire scenario. When he grabbed my arm and put it to his chest, I almost believed that he would look out for me. 

But where is he now? 

We're driving down backstreets to God knows where, and business minded, Private Investigator Kaiden Beckett is nowhere to be seen. Not that I can blame him. It's not like we're friends. 

And yet I thought I'd at least spy his car behind us. 

All I'm left with is this silence. This underlying anger I don't understand. 

Are you okay? 

I've been debating asking it. Damien might appreciate it or it might tip him over the edge. We run through a red light at double the speed limit and my lips stay locked. Probably best to not say a word. 

"This is my house," I state stupidly. 

We've turned onto the street and he's already pulling up at the curb. 

"Right," he nods. 

My body sags with relief. Even my eyelids droop, relaxing with the knowledge that I'm not going to be arrested tonight. Stupid to think that Damien would give a statement to the police to get me out of the way, even if it did serve his own cause. I don't know much about Damien, but I do know that he doesn't like dealing with cops. 

His head falls back against the headrest once the engine is off. 

"I'd apologise for dinner, but I don't apologise." 

O-kaay. 

I reach for the door handle and then look back to him. His face has tightened even more, if possible, and I wonder if the doors are still locked. If he's waiting for me to panic. 

"Are you okay?" 

Apparently, I have no sense of self preservation. 

It's a wonder I've lasted this long. 

"Stockholm," he says evenly, mouth still in a tight line. "Never ask questions."

Right. 

"And leave," he adds, when I don't move. 

I get out instantly. I've barely closed it when the car pulls away, my hair wafting with the force it leaves. I stumble backwards so he doesn't run over my feet. 

I stand in the street for a few long seconds, staring at the car as it squeals around the corner at the end of the road. Damien Mierro is an enigma. I do not understand a single thing about him, really, and every Friday I seem to be greeted with a new personality. 

Scary. Angry. Quiet. Eerie. Friendly. Distant. 

Part of me feels sorry for him. 

No friends. Always running from the law, always with the strain of his own choices against his back. Maybe it's why I stand up for him so much. There's something in his eyes akin to regret, and sometimes I wonder what would happen if he just let all the drug dealing go and decided to go straight.