Chapter 12 #2
The fluorescent lights hum overhead. The flickering one seems to pulse in time with my suddenly racing heart.
Thatcher looks up, tilting his head with a soft, almost paternal curve to his mouth. Like he fucking feels sorry for me.
“Multiple witnesses saw her leaving the scene. Why wouldn’t your girlfriend stick around to help you?”
Yeah, Haven. Why didn’t you stick around?
I’m acting surprised, but I saw it happen. Watched her walk away while campus security were on their power trips, pinning me to the ground. I watched her disappear into the trees while I had a knee in my spine and hands forcing my face into concrete.
And I know who was waiting there for her because the fucker waved at me.
Rooke.
What are the odds he just happened to be around when all this shit went down? I’ve been running calculations in my head like fucking Einstein since last night. They all lead me to the same conclusion.
It was him.
All him.
I don’t know how, but I can guess why.
He’s a fucking psycho who wants my girlfriend, and wouldn’t hesitate at framing me for something like this to get me out of the way.
Thatcher shakes his head, sighing when I fume silently instead of replying. “We’ll be talking to Miss Lee later. First, let’s discuss Melissa Parker.”
“I didn’t touch—“
I cut off when he flips over the stack of photographs. The top photo is a picture of my back.
“Know what we call these marks, Mr. Jordan?” Thatcher taps his pencil on the photo, continuing before I can answer. “Defensive wounds. Because they’re usually made by people trying to defend themselves.”
Defensive wounds? Ha. Looks like I tried to fuck a tiger without its consent.
“I can explain—”
“I certainly hope you can, because it sure looks like she touched you. A lot.”
I think I’ve ground off all the enamel on my teeth by now. “Those…that was Haven.”
“I don’t follow,” Thatcher says slowly, face as deadpan as his voice.
Sick fuck. He knows exactly—
“She likes to scratch me when we fuck,” I grate through clenched teeth.
Thatcher uses the back of his pencil to slide photo after photo off the pile. Each shows a part of my body covered in marks. It’s obvious some scratches are fresher than others. Deeper.
My wrists.
My forearms.
My chest.
My shoulders.
My back.
Some on my lower stomach that I don’t remember Haven giving me.
Even the faded teeth marks where Rooke bit me in the hospital bathroom.
Fuck, Haven. Fuuuck.
He stops at a photo of my neck. “Does she also—”
“Yes. She also likes trying to choke me.” I huff out a humorless laugh. “Trying being the operative word.”
“Big hands for such a small girl.”
My gaze flicks down to the photo again. Maybe it’s the way it was shot—the contrast or something—but the bruises on my neck are definitely larger than I’ve seen Haven leave before. Then again, she was pretty pissed off with me.
Still…a dread feeling swells inside me until Thatcher slides the photos back into the envelope.
He sits back in his seat with a sigh. “And she’d obviously be happy to corroborate your statement.”
It’s not a question, but I mutter out, “Obviously. Since she fucking did it.”
“Think she’d be able to convince a judge?”
I flinch when his eyes dart up to mine. “I didn’t fucking touch Melissa!” I wince at a stab of pain from my lip. This time when I touch my mouth, my finger comes back smeared with blood.
“Miss Parker explicitly named you, Mr. Jordan.”
“She’s—“ I flail my hands as best I can in the chained-up handcuffs. “—fucking confused or something.”
Thatcher glances down at his notepad, using his pencil to point out one scrawled line after the next.
“We have you trying to flee the scene.” The pencil moves down a line.
“Resisting arrest.” Another scrawled sentence.
“You were found with a weapon—” he taps the knife with the back of the pencil without taking his eyes off his notes “—and no reliable accounting for your whereabouts last night or this morning. That’s not even considering what we’ll find when the lab results come back on the blood we found under your nails. ”
Jesus. It feels like I swallowed a bowling ball.
So it was blood.
Why the fuck did I have blood under my fucking nails?
There’s a sharp light in his eyes when he looks up—an odd contrast to the soft smile still on his lips. “I know you did it, son. What I’m trying to ascertain is why.”
My mouth is open. I close it. Clench my teeth.
He just keeps staring, looking content to sit here all fucking day if needed.
“If I did it, then why would I show up at the library, huh? Why would I walk right into—” I cut off, because nothing on his face changes.
Can’t he see it doesn’t make sense?
If I kidnapped and assaulted Melissa, why the fuck would I stroll onto campus like nothing happened? With a weapon. But that’s the problem with being innocent. You don’t think like a guilty person, so you end up looking like one.
I saw cops, and instincts honed from a rough childhood and years of petty thievery flipped switches in my brain. So I ran. And it makes me look guilty as fuck.
There’s another knock at the door.
Jesus, what now? Camera footage of me stuffing Melissa in the trunk of a car?
Thatcher gives me a double take on his way to the door, and I hurriedly wipe the grim smile from my mouth.
“Deputy? Need you for a minute,” someone outside the door says.
Thatcher takes one step out of the office, then turns back. “Better safe,” he deadpans as he slips the knife and photos back into the envelope, taking it with him when he leaves.
Damn. I was gonna use that to break out.
I crash down into folded arms, gripping my biceps.
Guess this is another interrogation technique. Leaving me alone in this coffin of a room, nothing for company but the fluorescent buzz and the image of Haven walking into those woods playing on repeat behind my eyelids.
Why the fuck did she leave me? Was she scared she’d be arrested too?
Why the fuck did Melissa say I hurt her?
I barely fucking know her!
Sure, she dated Ezra for a while, but it’s not like we hung out. Ever. Yet for some reason she decided I was involved with…whatever the fuck happened to her.
I only caught a glimpse of her, but she looked bad.
Like true crime documentary bad.
Thank fuck I’m not left to stew for too long, because I’m starting to spiral.
The door opens, but it’s not the deputy.
It’s a man in a tailored Italian suit, wire-rimmed glasses. I don’t know what scares me more—the perfunctory glance he sends my way, or his crocodile leather briefcase.
“Mr. Jordan?” He sets the briefcase down. “I’m Jonathan Barnes. I’ve been retained to represent you.”
“What?” I say through a laugh.
“May I?” Barnes gestures to the chair opposite me, where Thatcher had been so politely interrogating me.
I pull at my chains. “Does it look like I can stop you?”
Barnes quirks the side of his mouth as he takes his seat. Not sure what the fuck the briefcase is for, because he sets it down beside him and doesn’t look at it again.
Gravitas, I guess.
Sure fucking works.
“Who the fuck hired you?” I hesitate, wrapping the chains around my knuckles again before venturing a cautious, “Was it my dad?”
Barnes meshes his fingers. “Bastian Rooke.”
“R—” I cut off with an incredulous chuckle. “Fucking Rooke?”
It doesn’t make any sense.
“Have you been read your Miranda?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Have you made any statements to the police?”
“They’ve been questioning me for—“ I shrug, leaning forward so I can rub my eyelids. “Fuck knows. Hours.”
His mouth tightens with disapproval. “And you didn’t request counsel?”
“Why? I didn’t do anything—“
“Mr. Jordan.” He looks at me over his glasses like the stupidity of criminals never ceases to amaze him. “From this point forward, do not talk to anyone about the facts of this case except me. Are we clear?”
I nod. Then, because he’s still waiting for something else, mutter, “Crystal,” and rest my head in my propped-up hands.
“Good.” He stands. “I need to review the police report. I will be back momentarily.”
I glare after him.
All I can think is that Haven asked Rooke to help me. Still doesn’t explain what Rooke was doing there in the first place. The timing’s still too convenient.
More importantly, why the fuck would Rooke agree to help me?
It’s got to be a power play. A way to own me. To make me owe him.
…there’s my good boy…now swallow my load like the cum-hungry whore—
I cup my hands over my face, growling.
Minutes pass like years.
The lights don’t change. The smell doesn’t change.
My wrists are raw and stinging under the cuffs, and I’m so fucking tired I could pass out sitting up if my brain would just shut up for five goddamn seconds. Every time I shift, my orange jumpsuit rubs against my skin like sandpaper.
Barnes comes back with a uniform. Not Thatcher, which I can’t decide is good news or not. As the officer uncuffs me from the table, my alleged lawyer begins rattling off technicalities.
“You’re being held on suspicion of assault with a deadly weapon and a weapons charge on school property. These are serious felonies, but it’s still early. Charges can change once the prosecutor reviews everything.”
I know I’m supposed to be asking questions, but there’s dirty dishwater in the cavity where my brain used to be.
“You’re going to stay here at the station until they finish processing you, then they’ll decide whether to move you over to county. Don’t argue with the deputies, don’t talk about your case, and if anyone asks why you’re here, tell them you’re not discussing it.”
“Here,” I deadpan as the officer grabs my elbow and urges me to my feet so he can re-cuff my hands. “As in jail.”
“As in a holding cell.” Barnes smooths a hand down his tie. “Once I get the discovery, we’ll sit down and go through it line by line and decide our strategy.”
“Discovery…as in evidence? Because these—” I tug down the front of my county-issue jumpsuit in case he missed the bruises “—are from my girlfriend, not Melissa. It must be her blood under my nails, too.”
Barnes slowly closes his open mouth. “Your girlfriend did that?”
“Haven. Lee.” I swallow, glancing away. “She likes it rough. She’s the one who fucked up my arms and back, too.” I twist my arms to show him the scratches.
Barnes blinks slowly. “And she’ll consent to a DNA test?”
I say nothing, because I don’t know how the fuck I got blood on my hands Friday night. I’m sure I would have noticed something at the Airbnb if it had happened at the same time she’d scratched me.
“They treating you okay in here, Mr. Jordan?”
When I shrug, he eyes my split lip.
“Oh, yeah.” I finger the cut, wincing. “Campus security got handsy.”
The officer herds me to the door. Barnes stays behind in the office, squinting thoughtfully behind his glasses as he watches me leave.
“I’m doing everything in my power to get you released.” He trails off, glancing around the tiny, mildewy office like he’s already planning a long, thorough shower when he gets home. “You’ll be fine as long as you—“
“Shut the hell up,” I finish for him.
His sardonic smile matches mine. “Better late than never.”
I’m led down a hallway into a cell block. I’m alone, but only because I’m guessing they emptied the drunk tank earlier this morning. By midnight, this place will be jam-packed again with alcoholics, wife beaters, and DUI offenders waiting for blood results.
When the door clangs shut, I’m left with nothing but my thoughts. And they make for shit company.
Haven walked away. Nah, fuck that. She ran…straight into Rooke’s waiting arms. Who then hired me a lawyer? All while Melissa’s off somewhere telling everyone I did shit to her.
The thoughts loop.
Haven, Rooke, Melissa.
Then it’s just the thought of them. Together.
Because that’s worse than being accused of kidnapping and assault, or whatever fairy tale Melissa’s coked up mind came up with.
Because what if this is it? What if Haven’s chosen him over me?
What if I’ve already lost and I’m too stubborn to accept it?
I put my head in my hands and try to breathe through the panic fizzing in my veins.
Thought shit was bad last night, after me and Haven got in that fight. Meanwhile, that was me living my best life.
So what comes next?
I mean, I’m already in purgatory or whatever the fuck.
Haven leaving…
I’d take hell over this.
At least in hell, you know where you stand.
This? This is free fall.