Chapter 15 Kai
Kai
I’ve traced every crack in the ceiling and turned them into pictures. If I squint, a cluster of them near the water stain looks like someone giving me the finger.
I got some sleep last night, but not nearly enough. I’d take a fucking nap, but every time I close my eyes, I see Haven walking into those woods.
Away from me.
Toward him.
It’s Monday morning, and I’m alone.
The drunk they brought in around 2 a.m. is gone. Someone bailed him out while I napped. Or he choked on his own vomit. Either way, I’m jealous as fuck.
My wrists ache, but at least my lip’s finally scabbed over. I’m hungry and stiff from lying on this concrete slab—and I’ve only been in jail for forty-eight hours.
Jesus, I’ll never make it on the inside.
Footsteps echo down the corridor.
I don’t bother looking. Probably another shift change, or a cop coming to take a piss in the staff bathroom. Might be Thatcher, but he ignores me whenever I try to speak to him, so I’m not wasting my energy again.
The footsteps stop outside my cell.
“Mr. Jordan.”
I roll my head to the side. Barnes is there in another Italian suit—charcoal this time, with a royal blue tie—his briefcase dangling from one hand.
“You look worse than yesterday,” he observes.
“Feel worse, too.” I push myself up, crack my neck left, then right. “What time is it?”
“Just after nine.” He nods to the guard hovering behind him. “Open it.”
I freeze mid-stretch. “The fuck is happening now?”
The guard fumbles his keys while Barnes watches with the patience of a man who bills by the hour.
“You’re being released.”
The cell door swings open with a screech that sets my teeth on edge.
I don’t move.
“As in, I can leave?”
“Indeed.”
I swing my legs off the slab, bare feet hitting cold concrete.
“Jesus, took them long enough,” I mutter. “Let me guess, Melissa came to her senses and told them it wasn’t me.”
“The complainant told the detective today that she doesn’t remember what happened.
That helps us, but it does not mean the case is over.
The prosecutor decides whether to go forward, not Miss Parker.
” Barnes steps aside to let me exit the cell, then falls into step beside me as the guard leads us down the corridor.
En route, he hands me a shopping bag with clothes inside.
Sweats, socks, sneakers, a shirt, and a hoodie.
All in my size.
All in Rooke’s preferred clothing brand.
Surprised they don’t have ‘PWNED’ printed all over them.
“It’s over,” I say under my breath.
I don’t just mean being arrested and all this bullshit.
I mean all of it.
Rooke won.
He fucking won.
“Not yet,” Barnes says, bursting the tiny bubble of relief swelling up inside me.
“Right now, they still have your arrest, her original statement, her injuries, and whatever forensics they pulled. But if her memory doesn’t come back and she can’t testify clearly, it gets much harder for them to prove this beyond a reasonable doubt, and that’s good for us. ”
The feeling when I strip out of the jumpsuit is better than sex…and lasts just as long. The moment the clothes Rooke chose for me touch my skin, I’m miserable again.
We stop at the processing desk, where a bored-looking woman slides a plastic bag across the counter. Wallet, phone, keys. The knife I had in my hoodie pocket is missing—presumably being used in the nearby kitchen for someone’s sandwich.
My phone’s dead.
Something Barnes says has finally had time to process in my fucked up brain.
“So even if Melissa says she can’t remember, they’ve still got a case?” I tear open the bag, shoving my wallet into my pocket.
Barnes waits until I’ve signed for my shit before answering.
“Best-case, her lack of memory gives me leverage to push for a dismissal or a very light outcome. Worst-case, the prosecutor will try to go forward on the photos, medical records, and witnesses, and let a jury decide.”
A fucking jury? Jesus.
“So what do I do now?” I’m trying to keep up, but my brain’s literally running on stale coffee. I can barely keep my legs moving in the same direction as Barnes leads me out of the station.
“Stay away from alcohol, drugs, and trouble. Go to class, then go straight back home. You want to look boring and responsible. Don’t give the prosecutor an excuse to take a second run at this.”
The sun slaps me in the face when we step outside. I squint against it, raising a hand to shield my eyes. I have to stop myself from dropping to my knees and kissing the cracked asphalt of the parking lot.
Barnes glances at me. “One more thing, Mr. Jordan. There is a no-contact order. That means you do not call, text, DM, or ‘accidentally’ bump into Miss Parker. That includes messages through friends. If she reaches out to you, you do not respond. If you violate that, you can go straight back into custody.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Good. I’ll be in contact.” Barnes heads to a nearby gray Mercedes and unlocks it with a chirp.
I almost let him leave.
But it isn’t right.
I did nothing fucking wrong. This is a fucking setup.
“Wait.” I catch the driver’s side door before he can close it. “This is bullshit. What if Melissa made this all up? Someone could be blackmailing her to set me up. Are the cops doing an actual investigation to figure this shit out?”
He pauses, hand on the handle. “I only got the discovery an hour ago. But yes, Mr. Jordan, there is an actual investigation.” He doesn’t have to sound so fucking condescending about it. Not like I passed the bar or anything.
“And? What have they found?” I drag a hand through my greasy hair, trying not to rave at my attorney in the Sheriff’s office parking lot.
“They found drugs in Melissa’s system. If her memory doesn’t come back, it’ll be much harder for the prosecutor to prove this beyond a reasonable doubt.”
“Drugs, like coke?”
Barnes sighs. “A lot more than coke, Mr. Jordan. Like I said, I’m still working my way through the discovery.”
“And the DNA and scratches and stuff? What happened with that?”
“DNA isn’t a Hail Mary, Mr. Jordan. Bear in mind, results take weeks, if not months, and even so, the results could prove inconclusive.”
“You serious?” My hand curls into a fist on the roof of the Mercedes. The one thing I was hoping would sort this shit out, Barnes is telling me might not even matter?
“The lab received a mixed sample with early indications of both female and male DNA. Whether the female DNA matches with your girlfriend, or the complainant—” Barnes shrugs “—or both, will only be determined in a few weeks when…”
His mouth keeps moving, but I can’t hear anything over the whine in my ears.
Female and male DNA.
Male DNA.
“Like…from a handshake?” I hear myself ask from somewhere far, far away.
“Excuse me?” Barnes is frowning up at me from the driver’s seat.
“The, uh…DNA. How…I mean, can I get it from a handshake or something?”
Barnes gives me a slow blink. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear. These are the samples they took from under your nails.”
That’s…impossible.
What the fuck happened Friday night?
I vaguely remember the bar. Kruger. Shot after shot of J?ger, chased with tequila because I’m a fucking masochist. The music was too loud, the lights too bright, and Kruger’s voice fading in and out like a bad radio signal.
And then…nothing.
Until I woke up on his couch Saturday morning with a splitting headache.
Memory of Kruger’s DM slams into my mind like a wrecking ball.
…who was the guy in the alley?…
So much shit happened after he sent that text, I never got to ask him what the fuck he was on about.
Male DNA under my nails.
Some guy in some alley.
What the fuck happened Friday night?
And why does Rooke keep infesting my thoughts like a fucking parasite?
“Why did he do it?” I blurt out. “Rooke. Why did he hire you?”
Barnes’s expression hardens. “I’m not at liberty to discuss—“
“Bullshit! You’re my lawyer, right? That means—“
“I may be your lawyer, but Mr. Rooke is my client. I am not obligated to share our private communications with anyone, even you.” He tilts his head, looking genuinely curious. “Would you prefer I withdraw from representation?”
I clench my jaw. “No.”
“Then I suggest you focus on staying out of trouble, Mr. Jordan. The charges may have been dropped for now, but this investigation is far from over.” He pulls a card from his breast pocket.
“Call me if Deputy Thatcher contacts you. Actually, call me if anyone contacts you. And for God’s sake, kid, don’t talk to anyone about anything. ”
I take the card. Stare at it mutely for a moment as my mouth turns dry.
“Thanks,” I mutter as I watch Barnes drive away.
But thanks for what? For getting me out? For being Rooke’s puppet? For making me owe that fucking psychopath even more than I already do?
No.
I laugh, shaking my head.
For making me realize just how truly fucked I am.
The Airbnb feels hollow when I step inside.
“Haven?”
The bed is unmade, sheets tangled like someone had a rough night. But her duffel bags and textbooks are still here.
That’s when I hear the shower. When I notice that the bathroom door is closed.
I have a midterm later this afternoon, but Haven’s only starts tomorrow—Rooke’s being the first. Maybe she slept in and only just woke up.
Or maybe she just got back from wherever she spent the night.
I sink onto the couch, head in my hands. The exhaustion hits me all at once—two nights of stress, fear, and endless fucking questions. And underneath it all, that new horror curling in my gut.
Whose fucking DNA was under my nails?
That it’s Rooke’s is the only logical conclusion—and a theory wild enough to earn me a permanent tinfoil hat.
He could have been at the bar.
Could have found me there, drunk and angry, and done…something.
But I don’t remember. I don’t remember any of it.
And the part that makes me want to put my fist through a wall?
I’m fucking hoping it was him.
Because if it wasn’t Rooke, then it was some other guy. A stranger I let close enough to touch.