Free Acting Brave (Fenbrook Academy #3) by Helena Newbury Page A

reddened, but there was a book on the floor, a heavy, hardback dictionary. “You hit her with that?” I asked.
    Hollister turned and glared at me. “ Sir,” he said, talking to the guy but keeping his eyes locked on me. “Can I ask you to go to another room? Please?”
    The guy was breathing hard, now, his eyes going from the book to me to his wife. He nodded and retreated into the apartment. I knew Hollister was doing everything right—talk to the wife alone, to convince her to tell the truth. Defuse the situation. But for me, it wasn’t defusing anything. For me, seeing the guy disappear was like watching a predator slither back into its nest. He was going to get away with it. He was going to get away with it. The heat rippled and blossomed inside, turning yellow and white. I could feel blood flowing into my muscles, my hands clenching and unclenching unconsciously.
    “You want to wait in the car? Kowalski?” It must have been written all over my face, because Hollister’s voice had gone from angry to seriously worried.
    I shook my head and folded my arms. My eyes were locked on the door through which the husband had disappeared.
    Hollister took a deep breath. “Okay. Ma’am.” He did the reassuring cop voice, the one that’s a little like talking to a scared animal. “Now can you tell us what happened?”
    “I tripped on the rug,” she said. Her eyes flicked to me, just for a second.
    “We can take you somewhere safe,” said Hollister. “Right now. We can take you somewhere safe.”
    “I tripped on the rug,” she said again. Her voice was like a fraying rubber band that’s about to snap. That hand was still on her stomach, cradling it all the way from her fingertips to her elbow.
    The heat from my anger was palpable, now. I actually had my mouth open a little to try to let it out. Their voices seemed to come from a long way away.
    Hollister tipped his head forward, looking the woman right in the eye. “Ma’am—” he started
    “ I tripped on the goddamn rug!” she almost screamed and stepped back into her apartment, her hand already reaching for the door.
    I leaned forward and snatched up the hem of her tank top, wrenching it up until she was bare up to the bottom of her ribcage. Red and black bruises covered her from her navel round to her kidney. The biggest one had a distinct shape. A footprint.
    He’d stamped on her.
    The sound seemed to switch off. I could see her shouting at me in shock and humiliation but I couldn’t hear her. I pushed her out of the way with one hand and marched inside the apartment. Something was grabbing and pulling at my shoulder from behind and I was vaguely aware that it must be Hollister, but I ignored it. I’m strong, and I’m even stronger when I’m angry.
    I found the guy sitting in his study, fingers steepled, staring at his MacBook screen without seeing it, waiting for us to go. He looked up with disbelief when I marched in, and was halfway up out of his chair when my fist caught him under the chin.
    He went back against the desk and the laptop fell to the floor with an ugly cracking sound. I hit him again, in the belly this time, and then in the face, the full power of my rage behind each punch. It all boiled out of me, the wrongness of it, the fact that people like him were free and people like Hux were dead, and the scariest thing was that it wasn’t like a release of pressure; it didn’t lower the level of anger at all, because there was an inexhaustible supply of it.
     
    ***
     
    The station was in uproar, everybody chattering about some pack of visitors. Reporters, I assumed, because suddenly everyone was fixing their hair and trying to get to the front as they approached.
    In Captain Barnes’s office, though, it was very quiet.
    “What happened?” Barnes asked Hollister.
    I kept my eyes straight ahead, but heard Hollister clear his throat. He was a good guy. “ Sir. We heard a noise coming from the study, and we had no choice but to enter to