Chapter 29 The Emotional Fallout #2
I wrap my arms around his neck, standing on tiptoes to meet him, and his fingers slide under the hem of my shirt, grazing my skin, until a small noise escapes me. I press closer, my heart racing as his lips leave mine to trail along my jaw, down my neck.
“Ugh. Gross.”
The voice cuts through the haze like a bucket of cold water, and I jerk away from Rafael, spinning around to find Ethan standing in the hallway. His arms are crossed, his face twisted in mock disgust. “You’re not about to have sex, are you?”
I gape at him, my cheeks burning. “No!” I burst out, just as Rafael says, “Yes.” I whip my head back, and, noticing my expression, he corrects. “No?”
Ethan’s eyes dart between us. “Well, I’m going to sleep, and I’d just like to warn you that if I hear a single noise, I will run away and leave barf in my wake.”
He scoops up Sherlock and leaves the room.“You don’t need to see that, either, Sherlock.”
Ethan’s footsteps fade up the stairs, and in a second, Rafael is back to nibbling on me. My skin tingles where his teeth pinch lightly, but I can’t focus, my thoughts running to the horrors we witnessed today. To Paige, heartbroken, and to Vanessa.
“Where are you?” he asks, pulling back.
I awkwardly smile. “Sorry.”
“You did nothing wrong.” He rubs my shoulders. “Today was a lot, huh?”
“I just keep thinking about Vanessa. The conversation we had… and— I don’t know.”
“What is it?
“Something doesn’t sit right with me.”
“Something like what?”
I shake my head, not sure of it myself. “She said, ‘I’d never hurt anyone.’ ”
“Oh, yeah. I thought about it, too.”
“You did?” I widen my eyes. “Rafael, what if we got it wrong? What if she’s not the killer?”
“Whoa.” He exhales sharply. “Not so fast. Every single piece of evidence we have points at her.”
“Not every single one.” When his brows rise, I clarify. “Both witnesses described a man.”
“Which was me. Not the murderer.”
“Quentin saw you and, well, stabbed you,” I concede. “But the first witness, in Catherine’s case? That wasn’t you, was it?”
“No.” Rafael tilts his head back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if the answer might be written there. “So they’re wrong. It wasn’t a man. I mean, Vanessa is a big girl.”
“But a T-shirt? I just don’t see Vanessa gearing up for murder in a T-shirt.”
“You’re not seriously considering that Vanessa could be innocent, right? You saw that room.”
“I did.” But even in a state of psychosis, would a serial killer say they would never hurt anyone with such conviction? “What did she tell the police?”
He hesitates, and when I gasp, he raises a hand. “Hold up. Ask around in any prison: everyone’s innocent.”
“Yes, but—”
“She’s confessing to things she can’t deny and denying things she can’t confess.”
Maybe so, but something doesn’t fit. Something about Vanessa, about all of this.
“So you admit we don’t have indisputable proof of everything,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “Like, okay, the killer tried to frame me,” I point out. “If Vanessa loves me so much, then why would she do that?”
Rafael leans with his back against the wall and chews on his lip. “All right,” he says slowly. “So, is the theory that there’s a stalker who’s obsessed with you and a serial killer who has it in for you?”
“No, of course not.”
He presses his lips together tightly, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “Then what’s the motive?”
“The podcast,” I say, almost automatically.
He clicks his tongue. “I told you, I’ve checked all the men connected to Booked It. Followed them, looked into their past, their families, their whereabouts during the crimes. Nothing.”
I tap my fingers against my arm. “What about the women? They have husbands, or brothers, or—”
“I’ve checked them, too,” he interrupts. “None of these people were anywhere close to the crime scenes when the murders took place.”
I exhale, my mind blank. We have no investors, no obsessive following, no one in town who would gain from our podcast blowing up because of these murders. The only people who would profit from this are the ones working for the podcast.
“Hey,” Rafael says, his voice softer now. He takes my hand in his and smiles, a lopsided grin that somehow manages to be reassuring. “Sherlock Holmes says that once you eliminate the impossible, whatever’s left, however improbable…”
“Must be the truth,” I conclude, mirroring his expression despite the knot tightening in my chest. “You’ve read Arthur Conan Doyle?”
He inhales sharply, his head tilting left to right in a mock display of hesitation. “I, uh…” Breaking into a chuckle, he admits, “I’ve watched the movies.”
I laugh, the sound light and fleeting, but it’s enough to ease the tension, if only for a moment.
The doorbell rings, and, wondering if today will ever be over, I turn to the door and pull it open. My breath is kicked out of me as I see Grandma and Grandpa, their matching expressions of disdain enough to make my blood run cold.
“Scarlett,” Grandma begins, her hair in its usual tight bun, her sharp eyes narrowed as she looks me over. “What on earth is this nonsense? Papers? An emergency custody hearing? Have you completely lost your mind?”
“Esther, please.” Grandpa holds a hand up, his suspenders stretching over a neatly pressed shirt. “After everything we’ve done for you, this is how you repay us? Dragging us into court like common criminals?”
I guess Steve must have served them papers. “Hi, Grandma. Hi, Grandpa. Nice to see you, too. Oh, and this is not about you. It’s about what’s best for Ethan.”
“What’s best for Ethan?” Grandma scoffs, stepping closer. “And you think that’s you? A mess of a girl who can’t even keep her life together, let alone raise a teenager?”
My fist presses around the door handle. “You have no idea what I’ve been through in the last five years, or the person I’ve become,” I say, voice sure. “And you don’t get to stand here and act like you’ve done a good job with Ethan when you’re stopping him from being himself.”
Grandpa’s face darkens. “This is a responsibility you’re not ready for, Scarlett. Tell your two-bit lawyer to backtrack on this, or you’ll end up regretting it.”
Rafael comes to my side, his hand tightening slightly against my back in a silent show of support. “Respectfully, Mr. and Mrs. Moore, you two could use a tolerance seminar,” he says. “We’ll see you in court.” Then he pushes the door closed, nearly smacking it in their smug faces.
When he notices my stare, half shock and half reverence, he huffs out a breath. “It’s not like we were getting an invitation for Christmas anyway.”