Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
NEVE
“How well did you know Will Barbour?” Detective Lincoln asks, sitting opposite me behind his sterile desk, only a Styrofoam cup of coffee and his computer monitor, off to the side, between us.
I don’t hesitate, even though my mind is spinning like a roller coaster going off the track.
“Not well.” The truth. Nolan always told me never to offer more than necessary, and he’d kill me right now if he knew I agreed to casual sunrise questioning without a lawyer present.
But I didn’t have time to get one of those.
Faust’s coach was warning him we’d be brought in. The three of us.
Neither of us have seen Sylvan so I don’t know if he got the memo.
An hour of stress later, I got the call to come down. So did Faust. We both acted shocked, surprised, and still tired, despite the fact we’d been up too long at that point, silently worrying.
Faust offered to drive me back to my place so I could change, but I decided to wear his sweats, shirt, and hoodie, all hidden underneath my long coat. I did my skincare routine with his products, put my hair up in a poofy bun, and let myself look exactly how I feel: Tired and disoriented.
Sitting across from the detective in Drayton’s police station that Faust drove us both too—no use pretending we don’t know each other now—I start to sweat under my coat. But I don’t need the officer to see I’m drowning in Faust Darling’s clothes.
Lincoln stares at me. He has a shaved head, a beard, and eyes the color of grass. He could be thirty, he could be forty-five. Honestly, I can’t tell. Maybe it’s the stress of the last few weeks working Drayton’s case.
He’s wearing plainclothes, a white button down, no tie, and his hands are on the desk between us, as if he’s trying to show me he comes in peace.
There’s a yellow wedding band on his ring finger.
His nails are neat and trim.
Overall, he seems good with people. That means he could definitely get me to slip up if I’m not careful.
No, I didn’t murder Will or Jackson and I have no idea who did, but that’s not really the point of these “casual questionings,” is it?
He wants to see what else I’ll add, what I’m not saying, how I act.
The fact I’m innocent isn’t really going to add to my scorecard here, because everyone he brings in is under suspicion, even if not officially.
Briefly, I wonder how Faust is faring.
“Can you elaborate on that?” Lincoln smiles, and it actually meets his eyes. We both know the game we’re playing here.
“Sure.” My heart is hammering so hard inside my chest, I think I might pass out, but remarkably, my voice stays steady and calm. I chalk it up to refusing his offer of caffeine, and the oddly incredible sleep I had last night.
I glance down at the desk as if I’m thinking. Even an innocent party would do that, instead of reciting facts like they’ve memorized them.
“We met a few weeks ago. We… spent a night together.” My cheeks heat and I don’t mind. If I seem sheepish about telling a police officer I hooked up with a guy I barely knew, maybe that makes me fit a murderer’s profile less.
I raise my eyes to Lincoln. He makes no judgment in his expression, warm and open, but I’m sure the wheels are turning inside that shaved head of his.
“I didn’t speak to him again after that until…
” I trail off, and part of it is acting but part of it is that I need to get my anxiety under control before I burst into tears.
Maybe it would have been better if I was hungover.
My mind wouldn’t dive so deep into the spiral of everything that could happen to me if I fuck this up, not least of all Nolan Devine having a stroke as he yells at me through the phone. “Last week.”
Lincoln nods. “Did you two spend the night together again?” There’s a slight smile pulling at the edge of his lips, but he isn’t mocking me. He’s pretending he’s kind.
I shake my head. “No.” I can’t lie about Will coming to my apartment, or Sylvan for that matter.
I need to talk to Mr. Bennet. There could be cameras outside of the building.
Then they’d know when both entered, and while I don’t think there’s footage inside the store, or my floor, it’s best to keep everything as honest as possible so I don’t have to remember what I said later. “He came to my place—”
“Had you previously given him your address?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Then give the truth as I wonder about the anonymous texts right beforehand. “No.”
“So how did he know where you lived?”
Jackson had been to my place once, only stood outside the door while I stalked in to grab a heavier coat one night before we went to a party. The last we’d wind up at together. The one at Will’s house.
“Jackson must have told him.” Or whoever was texting me did. But I don’t bring it up. I hate to admit why, but Sylvan’s duplicity keeps playing around inside my head.
Lincoln frowns. And I have to admit, it seems odd to me, too.
Why would Jackson give Will something specific like that?
Although he could’ve mentioned Midnight Blackwell’s, and that’s easy to remember.
But who the hell told Jackson that I’d slept with Will, since the last time I saw him, he was extremely surprised I hadn’t?
The fact investigators haven’t discovered Will’s phone is odd.
But Lincoln isn’t asking about phones, so I don’t mention it.
“That seems strange, doesn’t it?” he presses. Not overbearing or forceful but casually confused.
Makes two of us, buddy.
“Yes. It does.” I clear my throat, hedging around what I know without giving it away.
“I’m sure you have access to both of their phone records now.
Can you see if they texted one another the information?
” What I really want to ask is, Who told Jackson I’d fucked Will?
Who texted me those creepy fucking texts before Will burst into my apartment?
Because that’s probably your guy. But I don’t say it and I don’t reveal any of that information.
I don’t want to tangle the webs any more than they’re already twisted.
Lincoln glances down at his clasped hands on his worn wooden desk, a polite smile on his face. “We may. We might not. It’s not as easy as everyone seems to think it is.” The last part he mutters under his breath and I almost believe him. “Regardless, neither of their phones have been discovered.”
My heart drops. I frown at him. It’s not acting. “What?” I heard him just fine.
“Did you see them with phones?”
Jackson had to have his the night before he died, because he texted me to say he was outside my place when he picked me up. So someone took it… after they murdered him?
“No.” That’s all I say.
Lincoln stares at me, and I wonder if he can see my mind racing. Then he just asks, “Is there anyone else who could have given Will Barbour your address?” He shrugs. “Your roommate, maybe?”
No. Do not drag Cynthia into this. She has no idea Will even came to our place.
I shake my head vehemently. “She didn’t have Will’s info; she never talked to him. And she definitely wouldn’t give him our address without telling me.” My tone is bordering on angry, definitely defensive, but I don’t bother trying to hide it.
It’s all true.
Lincoln nods as if in agreement, but I know that’s just an act. “Was she there when Will came to your place?” he asks quietly.
I feel my cheeks burn. “No.”
“Does she know Will came to your place?”
That heat crawls down to my chest. “No.”
“Why didn’t you tell her? Are you two close?”
“She’s my best friend. And I didn’t want to worry her. His visit wasn’t pleasant.” I remember his hand around my throat. The first time I truly feared for my life. But I try not to let that visceral fear show, because there’s some parts of what happened that I don’t want to reveal.
Mainly, they concern Sylvan. I’m once again lying by omission, but I can’t help it if the detective’s not asking the right questions.
“Tell me what you mean.” Lincoln leans in toward his desk, closer to me, although there’s still plenty of distance between us.
My hand grows clammy, wrapped around my phone in my coat pocket.
“Did he hurt you?” Lincoln presses when I don’t immediately answer him.
“No. But he was angry.” My voice is barely more than a whisper, but it’s not an act.
“How so?” Lincoln is patient. Calm. He’s eyeing me for any tells, I know.
“He didn’t know I knew Jackson was… dead.” I clear my throat. “When he found out, he asked why I didn’t reach out to him.” Which seems odd now, if his phone was stolen. How would I have reached out?
I’m watching Lincoln now, and I swear I see his eyes darken, but it could be my imagination.
I don’t mention the part about Will accusing me of confessing to Jackson about our night together. For some reason, it feels like territory I don’t want to venture into. At least not without a lawyer present.
“Was he visibly upset?”
Again, his hand around my throat, preventing me from breathing, it enters my brain.
I blink it away.
“Yes.”
“Crying?”
“Yes.” I’m not sure if that’s true, but how else would he be visibly upset, aside from the assault?
Lincoln says nothing. He just stares at me. He wants me to add more. Break the silence.
I don’t. I have to consciously resist the urge to hold my breath, waiting for him to ask about Sylvan saving me.
But remarkably, he doesn’t. Are there no cameras? I could have sworn I’ve seen them outside of Blackwell’s, but I never really checked. I didn’t have reason to.
Lincoln straightens. Taps his palms lightly on the desk and says, “Thank you for your time, Ms. Devine. That will be all for today.”
“For today,” I deadpan back.
He looks up quickly then, away from the computer he was about to turn to, and I don’t miss the small breath of a laugh that seems genuine when he meets my gaze again.
“If we have any further questions, we’ll be in touch.”
I stand then, hands still in my pockets as the chair I was sitting in squeaks back across the floor with my movement.
But I can’t resist asking.
“Do you have any suspects? For either of them?”
His fingers rest on his keyboard now, but he stills.
Looks at me again.
Too long.
But I don’t look away, because I didn’t do it.
I just want to know if Sylvan Connor might have.
Finally, Lincoln only says, “Not at this time.” And I know I’m dismissed.