His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 160: Olive's Pov

I should've been annoyed at how bossy he was being. Should've told him to back off and let me handle my own crisis.

But instead I just felt grateful.

Grateful that for once, someone was on my side without question. Without hesitation. Without making me prove I deserved their support.

But I shouldn’t be shocked neither was this the first.

I grabbed my phone from the floor and headed to my bedroom, my hands shaking as I pulled clothes from my closet.

Professional. I needed to look professional. Put-together. Like someone who definitely didn't murder anyone.

I settled on black pants and a simple cream blouse. Nothing flashy. Nothing that screamed "I'm trying too hard."

My hands fumbled with the buttons.

I kept seeing Judy's face across the table from me. The way he'd smiled when I walked in. The flowers he'd remembered I loved. The way his expression had shifted when he started talking about Klaus.

"I knew Klaus Mercer for three years before his death. We had... mutual interests."

What had he been about to tell me?

What did he know about Klaus and Zane?

And did that have something to do with why he was dead?

No. No, that was insane. This was probably just a horrible coincidence. A heart attack or an accident or something completely unrelated to our dinner.

But even as I thought it, I didn't believe it.

Because the detective's voice had been too careful. Too measured. Like he was already building a case.

I finished getting dressed and found Zane in my living room, phone pressed to his ear, pacing like a caged animal.

"I don't care what you have to cancel," he was saying, his voice cold and clipped. "Get to the downtown station in the next thirty minutes or you're fired."

He ended the call and looked at me.

"Ready?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

The drive to the police station was silent.

Zane drove with one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against his thigh in a rhythm that betrayed how wound up he was despite his controlled exterior.

I stared out the window, watching the city blur past, trying to organize my thoughts into something coherent.

What would they ask me? What should I say? How much should I tell them?

Should I mention that Judy had talked about Klaus? That he'd hinted at some connection between my dead brother and Zane?

No. That would just complicate things. Make them ask more questions I didn't have answers to.

Better to keep it simple. I went to dinner. We talked. I left. That's it.

"Olive."

Zane's voice pulled me from my spiraling thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"Whatever they ask you in there," he said, his eyes still on the road, "tell the truth. Don't lie. Don't embellish. Don't try to make yourself sound better or worse than you are. Just answer their questions honestly and directly."

"Okay."

"And if they ask you anything that makes you uncomfortable, anything that feels like they're trying to trap you, you say 'I'd like to speak with my lawyer before answering that.' Understood?"

I nodded.

"Say it, Olive. I need to hear you say you understand."

"I understand," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

He reached over and grabbed my hand, threading his fingers through mine.

The touch was possessive and reassuring all at once.

"You didn't do anything wrong," he said again. "Remember that. No matter what they imply or suggest or try to make you think. You. Didn't. Do. Anything. Wrong."

The police station came into view—a massive concrete building that looked exactly like what it was. Cold. Imposing. Designed to intimidate.

Zane pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine.

For a moment we just sat there, his hand still holding mine.

"I'm scared," I admitted quietly.

"I know." He brought my hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to my knuckles. "But I'm not letting them railroad you. I promise."

We got out of the car and walked toward the entrance.

Zane's hand found the small of my back, guiding me forward, and I was grateful for the touch. For the reminder that I wasn't alone in this.

The lobby was exactly what I expected. Fluorescent lights that made everything look washed out. Hard plastic chairs bolted to the floor. A reception desk behind bulletproof glass.

Zane walked up to the window with a confidence that suggested he'd done this before.

"Olive Monroe," he said to the officer behind the desk. "She's here regarding the Judy Byron case. Detective Harrison called her."

The officer glanced at me, then back at Zane, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he looked familiar.

"And you are?"