Dominic's POV
It smelled in that room, of sweat and old coffee and the desperation that only cops wore like a second skin. Steel table. One flickering light. Two-way mirror. The full cliché, without the respect.
I sat back in the chair, wrists resting on the cold metal edge, and watched Officer Dalton pace the floor like a wolf that had tasted blood but could not find the kill.
He slammed a photo on the table.
“That you, Dominic?”
The image was grainy, taken from the side. A man with my build, my jawline, walking out of a hotel. Shadows cut across the face, enough to make a lie out of the truth. Or truth out of a lie.
I didn’t blink. He had been keeping tabs.
“And you're asking because?” I asked.
Dalton shoved another photo beside it—this one clearer. It was from the hotel where I was supposed to have my supposed honeymoon. Then another from the video.
Was this cop an idiot or was he just trying to piss me off?
“You’re not gonna talk?” Dalton growled. “Fine. Let’s watch it again.”
He
