“Yes,” she said, answering his question. “It’s kind of a blur. But he was there with the cops. I think he spun some story about flying home to surprise her. When he realized she wasn’t there, he got worried and tried to track her phone.”

“So his story is he flew home, tracked her phone, and called the cops?” Brick summarized.

Remi nodded.

“What happened when they pulled you up?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Well, you won’t be surprised to know I did something stupid,” she confessed.

He wished he could sit with her and hold her. But he was afraid to touch her with this much rage flooding his system. “Just tell me what happened, baby.”

So he could finish having this aneurysm, turn in his badge, and go beat a man to death.

“They pulled Camille up first on a sled—she was still unconscious—and then they helped pull me up. When I got to the top, I was understandably distraught.”

Brick remained silent and waited for her to collect her thoughts.

“I kind of lunged at Warren and called him something like a tiny-pricked sociopath with no balls.”

“Jesus, Remi.”

“Oh, he played it cool. Pretended to be the devastated husband. Played the part. But I saw it in his eyes. That dead-eyed stare. There’s nothing inside him. Nothing human, at least.”

“What happened then?”

“It took an EMT and a cop to pull me off him. He told the officers I’d obviously been drinking. Then he asked me how fast I’d been going as if I had been the one driving.”

Brick swore under his breath.

“I told them I wasn’t driving. But I think it got drowned out in the midst of me trying to tell them what he’d done. That he hurt her. That he’d forced us off the road. That he’d stood there to make sure there were no survivors.”

“They didn’t take you seriously?” he demanded.

“I was half-frozen and most of the way hysterical. Plus I couldn’t catch my breath. So I probably looked a little unhinged. But he went all buddy-guy with the cops. ‘Obviously my wife’s friend is distraught. She’s been drinking. She has a substance abuse problem blah blah blah.”

“Fuck,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck.

“A trooper drove me home.”

“You mean to the hospital,” Brick prompted.

She shook her head. “No. He drove me home. Since I didn’t seem to be hurt.”

“You broke your fucking arm.” His facade of calm was showing Grand Canyon-sized cracks.

“Well, I didn’t know that at the time. I was more worried about Camille and terrified that he was going to off her in the ambulance or at the hospital. I tried to tell the cop—Trooper Martinez—the whole story again, but I sounded hysterical even to myself. I did get him to give me a breathalyzer though, which I passed.”

“So a cop drives you home, and then what?”

“Raj, my agent, showed up at my condo with a bottle of champagne, wanting to celebrate.”