Chapter 52 Neve
FIFTY-TWO
NEVE
“Wanna have a sleepover at Castle Darling?” Despite the circumstances, I’m kind of giddy asking the question. Experiencing the vampire-esque building myself was staggering; showing Cyn, who loves Midnight Blackwell’s and everything we did at Darkmouth, will be like sharing a treat.
“Uh, yes. I do. Can Tye come too?”
“Come where?” I hear his voice in the background but Cynthia doesn’t answer him which causes a grin to stretch across my face.
I don’t ask the boys because if they want me there, they’ll have to take Cynthia and Tylone, too. Besides, right now, I think moving in larger numbers is ideal.
“Yep.” I glance out the tinted window as my chest tightens, and it has nothing to do with Cyn and Tye and everything to do with Detective Lincoln’s words to me about Nolan being a suspect.
Faust is standing right by Sylvan’s blacked-out G-wagon, his back to my door, his arms crossed. We’re parked at the police station, surrounded by unoccupied cop cars, and Sylvan is behind the wheel, his gaze on me, his hand on the shifter.
Cynthia says, “I’m down for a sleepover, but…” She sighs, loudly. “I know he’s your brother, Neve, but he’s making you uncomfortable, and that’s pissing me off. That boy needs to get the hell out of Darkmouth or I’m gonna make him.”
I swallow hard but force myself to smile so when I speak, it doesn’t betray how worried I am. “I’ve got it handled. He’ll be gone by the weekend.” In my head, Lincoln leads him away in cuffs.
“You usually have it handled, but if you need me to deal with him, I will.” There’s sincerity in her words.
I close my eyes tight, knowing Detective Lincoln is waiting. He offered to “give me a ride” in his car, but there was no way I was leaving with him. I sat in the passenger seat with Faust in the back, his fingers massaging my shoulders the entire time.
“I know, I know. Listen, I’ve gotta go but come over at seven?” I figure that gives me enough time to deal with all this, and see what happens next.
“I would ask for the address but…” She trails off and I laugh. It’s tight and unnatural to my own ears.
“But you already know it.”
I glance at Sylvan and see he’s raised a brow, staring me down. If I’m not mistaken, I’d say there’s jealousy in his gaze over the fact he probably overheard Cynthia knowing how to get to Castle Darling. I have no idea where Sylvan lives, but on the other hand, I didn’t know about Faust, either.
“I can’t believe this. I hope it’s not haunted,” Cynthia adds, like an after thought.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Tye in the background.
I roll my shoulders back and take another breath in. “I gotta go,” I say. “See you tonight.”
“Listen, Tasia doesn’t have an invite there, right? She nearly dropped my vase I made in pottery. Would have if the professor hadn’t caught it. If I see that bitch outside of class—”
“I’ll fucking deck her,” I say, and I mean it. “But no.” I lock eyes with Sylvan. “Tasia will not fucking be there.”
Cynthia laughs and it feels good to hear it. “Good. See you at the nightmare house!”
“The mansion, you mean. It’s a bit bigger than a house.”
Sylvan scoffs in the passenger seat, but says nothing, and I stick my tongue out at him.
Cynthia squeals through the phone again, then we hang up, but not before I say, “Be safe. Bye, Cyn.”
“Good to see you again,” Detective Lincoln says, but there’s no lightness in his words.
I stare right back at him, seated across from his desk, one leg crossed over the other, and say, “I wish I could say the same.”
At that, the smallest smirk curves his mouth, but I blink, and it’s gone.
The police station seems busy beyond the walls of Lincoln’s office; phones going off, people—uniformed and plainclothes—scurrying about. The door at my back has a glass pane in the center, and I can still hear some of the commotion, but it’s mostly drowned out.
Mostly, but not enough to let me forget Drayton U is dealing with a possible serial killer. A murderer who is targeting people I’ve had some sort of relationship or moment with, big and small.
That, of course, is why I’m here, no matter what the detective said about my brother being a suspect.
The more I thought it over and spoke about it out loud with Faust and Sylvan, I came to the conclusion the easiest way to get me into this chair without a warrant of some kind is to tell me my brother is a suspect.
Faust said nothing to that; Sylvan looked at me with what felt like pity.
But I’ll let Lincoln spell it out now that I’m here.
He leans back in this chair, and the thing creaks with the motion. It’s not leather; something plastic, no high-back. Maybe if he solves these murders, he’ll get a raise.
Resting his interlinked hands on his sternum, he cocks his head. It doesn’t feel judgmental so much as open. Like he’s gearing up for a long listening session of me telling him exactly what he needs to know.
But I don’t speak.
I know better.
Seconds pass. Somewhere in the distance, a phone rings, and a woman’s voice barks out an order for someone else to answer it.
Still, I wait the detective out.
Then he sighs as if I’ve won, but I don’t take it as a real victory. It’s all part of the game, isn’t it? Just like the bullshit reason he gave for bringing me down here in the first place.
“Where is Nolan Devine?” He asks it like someone else might ask after the weather, but the question throws me off guard.
Am I still in denial? But he can’t actually believe Nolan is a suspect, can he?
“You don’t want to talk about my brother.” I lift my chin and keep my arms on the thin armrests, forcing myself not to fidget or stammer my words.
His brows draw together. “Why do you say that?” He could, of course, be acting, but his question sounds startlingly genuine.
“You don’t really believe Nolan had anything to do with,” I wave one hand around, “any of this, do you?” I hope he hears the sincerity in my voice.
Nolan is a lawyer. He makes half a million a year. USD. He lives in NYC; he’s already a senior partner at his firm. On what planet does he have the time or the inclination to sneak to my university and stab a few boys?
I want to say all of that, but I leave the ball in the detective’s court.
“You certainly don’t seem to,” he comments, as if he’s observing me closely.
I’m tired of feeling like I’m being watched. And yeah, maybe that started with Nolan breathing down my neck about food intake, calorie balance, fast days. But that’s a far cry from murder.
“What is it you want to know?” I snarl the words and I know I’m breaking the calm, cool, nonchalant bitch I’m supposed to play and instead stepping into the real one, but I’m tired. “Ask me exactly and stop playing these mind games with me.”
He arches a brow and lifts one finger from his clasped hands. “There are no games, Miss Devine. I’m simply curious why you think your brother could have no involvement in the string of mutilated bodies turning up on campus, all of which have a curious connection to you.”
My pulse hammers hard in my throat and I don’t think about how he knows Mitchell bumped into me the night he died or if he’s aware Ace and Sylvan had an altercation the night the former was found.
I won’t offer any more information than he gives me, but I can dump in his lap what he’s asking after.
“My brother lives in the States,” I say, exasperation in my tone.
“He’s successful, professional, I’ve never seen him hurt a fucking fly.
” Not physically, anyway. Regardless, I don’t apologize for the curse word as I sit up straighter in my chair.
“There would be a flight log or an indication he crossed the border each time a victim turned up. He can’t be in two places at once, so how the hell do you think he—”
“Correct,” Lincoln interrupts me, his voice so soft I stop talking abruptly. He glances down at his desk and I go rigid in my chair.
Immediately, I know he’s going to tell me something that I’m not going to like.
I wish Faust and Sylvan were here. And I know they’re just outside in the waiting area at the front of the building but right now, it feels too far away.
“He couldn’t be in two places at once,” the detective continues.
A cold chill wraps itself around my neck while I break out into a sweat under my arms. I feel clammy. Unsettled. And he hasn’t even told me the worst of it yet, I’m certain.
“He’s been in Toronto since Thanksgiving.”
“Canadian Thanksgiving?” The first week in October. A week before the incident with Jackson. When I first met Sylvan and Faust.
Slowly, watching me all the while, the detective nods.
“But that doesn’t make sense. He’d tell me if he was close. He’d say if he was an hour away. He—”
“Sure,” Lincoln soothes. “If he weren’t doing anything wrong.”
“It must be about work. Maybe he had a client in the city and he—”
“He didn’t. He hasn’t been working. We contacted the CEO of his firm. We know he’s sent anonymous texts to at least one of the victims, including information on you. We know he bought a ticket to Haunt Night, and he was there Halloween night.”
My stomach twists into knots.
I don’t speak. I feel like I’m going to throw up.
“What we can’t seem to figure out,” Lincoln continues, “is where he is now.”
My pulse thunders loud in my ears, but on the outside, I remain calm. No. I don’t believe Nolan did it. They have the wrong person, and I’m not giving up my brother yet. It’ll give them time to find the right killer. I shake my head and clear my throat, meeting the detective’s eye directly.
“This isn’t rational.” My voice sounds far away from myself.
“If it were him, and let’s say he’s targeting men who have…
bothered me…” I swallow as I trail off. “Why hasn’t he come after Faust and Sylvan?
” For one heartbeat, even as I’m staring right at him, I forget I’m speaking out loud.
My own head is a mess of a puzzle I can’t solve.
Lincoln must see it, because he clears his throat.
“Jackson Merit. Will Barbour. Mitchell Breems. Ace Lancaster.” He says all of their names carefully, and I tense at each one.
“It’s unfair, but in the world of crime, there are hierarchies.
Cases and victims that get more attention than others from the public.
These men may or may not have been good people, but that isn’t the point I’m making.
The point is this: Very few others have mourned their passing.
Not enough to make them go viral, or demand justice, or amplify their deaths.
Maybe they don’t deserve amplification,” he shrugs.
“Jackson Merit had a record. And other people far more deserving than him never get justice, either.”
I take a breath and I don’t look up.
“But, as you said, your brother is professional, and successful. He knows all of these points exactly. And he knows harming a star hockey player for Drayton University? That will cause an outrage.”
“So you’re saying they’re safe.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Maybe I’m selfish, but in the moment, it’s all that matters to me.
Lincoln lifts one shoulder in a shrug, watching me carefully. “For now. Until your brother finds a way to get to them too.” He exhales slowly, glancing down at the desk, then back up at me. “But the real question is, are you?”
I tense, my shoulders locked, and I refuse to hear all the subtle insults and constant control Nolan had over certain aspects of my life. He’s also treated me in luxury, answered the phone every time I’ve called, been there while Mom hasn’t.
I grit my teeth and narrow my eyes. “He won’t hurt me.”
“I’m not so sure that’s true.”
“Do you have any evidence to suggest he’s after me?”
Detective Lincoln smiles, but it seems sad. “He’s staying above the bookstore right now, isn’t he?”
I don’t answer immediately. I think of how the boys fed me, how Sylvan caught me when I almost fainted in the alleyway. How both of them stepped in front of Jackson for me, before we knew one another.
“You went there. You’d know.” It’s the only betrayal I’ll utter right now.
Lincoln glances down at the desk, then back up. “I don’t have a warrant yet. But I sent a guy over there before you walked in here.”
I know I’m holding my breath, hanging onto his every word, but I don’t speak.
“There was a book shredded into pieces right outside your door, scattered on the bat doormat? Stolen, no doubt, from Blackwell’s, which is open, as I’m sure you know.”
I stay silent.
“Serial Murderers and Their Victims.”
My skin grows clammy, and I can feel the blood drain from my face. “Outside the door?” I check, my voice hoarse.
Lincoln nods, so slow.
“That’s not from Blackwell’s,” I say honestly. “It’s mine.”