4. Juliette
Chapter 4
Juliette
H is blue eyes appeared darker in the yellowed lights. He was more domineering, too, shoulders broader—authoritarian, though he had no more power here than anyone else.
Though, to be fair, he certainly had more power than Jason.
Her eyes drifted to the sticky tile. The man’s head was turned to the side, eyes wide and staring, blood reddening a slimy path from his lips to the floor—the flow had stopped. No defensive wounds that she could see. His knuckles were free from gore, and though his hands weren’t exactly clean, he didn’t appear to have blood beneath his fingernails.
Blindsided, then. Six stab wounds. The first must have been the kill shot, the others for the sake of pure rage. He hadn’t had time to fight back.
“Don’t move,” the man snapped, and she glanced over as he stepped through the swinging door into the main room, yanking his cell from his pocket. Calling the police from the way he was rapid-firing their address. Within seconds, he was barking orders at her coworkers, or maybe at the other patrons—“You, sit down. You, hit the lights”—voice low and gruff like he had gravel in his throat.
Strange . He was acting as if he was the owner of this place and not Waylon, who was still standing by the open door to his office, upper lip set in a trembling sneer. The lights in the main room snapped on.
The hairs on her neck prickled. She turned back to see Waylon glaring at her. It wasn’t just a look—it was a warning.
“You remember what I said,” Waylon hissed, deep-set eyes tight.
“I remember,” she fired back.
He pushed himself off the doorframe but did not step toward her—avoiding the body.
But Juliette wasn’t avoiding it. She couldn’t afford to.
She tried to keep her face even, but her mind was racing, eyes scanning the room. No bloody footprints, no obvious dirt from a boot heel, but anything subtle would be hard to see. Waylon owned a mop for the front room, but no one ever cleaned back here. And they should.
Especially Waylon’s nasty office.
Her hackles rose, but she pushed those thoughts aside. What was she supposed to do now? The fact that she knew Jason would be a problem if the police put her into the system. And if they realized her license was fake, snapped her photo, and ran it through facial recognition software… fuck .
She glanced at the swinging door—no more music, just that man barking orders. The back door was still wide open, the night breeze hissing over the tiles and ruffling Jason’s short, blond hair. Smears of ruby on the door itself—transfer stains about the height to be from a jacket sleeve. Nothing on the handle.
Another chilly gust blew into the room, and Juliette had to restrain herself to keep from racing through the exit. The potential for escape was inviting… which was probably the point. Should she risk it? Would she fare better out in the dark alley? Or was it a trap?
“I’m serious,” Waylon said, bringing her back. “You didn’t see shit, Jenny. I know enough about you that?—”
“I said I remember,” she repeated. “And you didn’t see anything either, right? Now be quiet, he’s coming.”
As if on cue, the man stepped back through the door, eyes grazing her face, then Waylon’s before locking on Jason. With the music off, the silence was deafening. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears, the disgusting whoosh of air through her nose.
“How did you know the deceased?” he said. Far too calm. Far too… used to this.
Juliette’s shoulders stiffened, her spine a steel rod. The deceased? Who talked like that? Only one group she could think of. People who dealt with dead bodies. With victims .
Oh no. Juliette lowered her head, avoiding his piercing gaze. Of all the dangerous bullies in the world, cops were the absolute worst. How the hell had she missed this? Because he had money? She’d caught him sneaking around the locker rooms once but hadn’t said a word because Waylon had found thousands of dollars stuffed into their cubbies—money surely meant for them.
But cops didn’t have that kind of money to throw around. Not unless they were dirty.
“Ma’am?”
She raised her head. “I didn’t know him.”
His eyes narrowed. “Do you often kiss people that you don’t know?”
“Excuse me? Who are you to?—”
“I’m Ronan Duffy.” He reached into his pocket and flashed a badge—not just any cop. A detective . “And your lipstick is on his mouth.”
Juliette cut her gaze to the body, squinted at Jason’s face. Blood had never bothered her, but she winced because it should bother her. And Detective Ronan Duffy was right. The dark shade she wore—a reddish-maroon that changed the shape of her mouth—was smeared across Jason’s lips beneath the thin ruby lines of gore. She hadn’t even noticed with the blood.
“ He kissed me ,” she said. “I pushed him away, told him to get out, then went into the locker room. I heard a thud, and when I came back, he was on the floor. I touched him to see if he was…”
She shook her head and raised her hands, showing him her fingertips. If she was guilty, there would be more blood. There would certainly be a murder weapon. And he’d not find that here.
“Did he say anything before he kissed you?”
“He…” She swallowed hard. “He said that he liked me.” But he hadn’t. She’d seen only disgust on his face when his eyes had lit on her scars.
The detective blinked. “What about you?” he asked Waylon.
“Same.” But he had a smug look on his face, almost like he was daring the detective to ask him more. He probably was.
They’d all heard the rumor a few months back. Shonda said they’d passed a law that made it illegal for cops to enter adult venues. It was nonsense—at least Juliette thought so—but it was possible that the precincts were cracking down. Detective Duffy might be in trouble just for being here.
He cocked an eyebrow at Waylon. “You were also in the locker room after kissing the deceased?”
Waylon frowned. “No, I mean, I was in my office, I heard them talking”—he gestured vaguely at Juliette and the body—“then a few minutes later, I heard a scuffle, came out, and he was on the ground.”
“He’s right about the scuffle,” Juliette said. “I heard him arguing with someone right before that thud.” The lie slipped from her lips so cleanly that even she heard it as truth.
The detective’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a fact?”
No, that was definitely not a fact . But she needed him to believe it. Sirens wailed in the distance.
“I heard that too,” Waylon cut in. “Someone with a low voice.”
Juliette nodded. “Yes, definitely—a low voice like yours, Detective.”
There had been no argument. No low voice. But she and Waylon had good reason to protect the other, even if she didn’t know exactly what it was she was protecting Waylon from. What the fuck had he been doing in his office? From the state of his unbuttoned pants, she could guess.
The sirens were a constant wail now just outside the building. Lights flashed down the alleyway, and then they were right outside the door, painting the corpse in sickly shades of blue as if he’d been dead far longer than five minutes.
“Let’s get you two out into the main room,” Detective Duffy said. “The crime techs will be here soon. And we’ll need to question everyone separately.”
Waylon’s nostrils flared—angry. “I can’t afford to keep this place closed all night! I’m losing money right now! Can’t you just load this asshole into an ambulance and?—”
The detective raised a hand. “In the main room now, or I’ll take all of you to the station and question you there. Would you prefer that?” His voice remained low but not aggressive. Confident. Because he knew Waylon had no choice.
Her heart launched into her throat, choking her, but she forced out, “I’m happy to answer your questions here, Detective. Anything I can do to help.”
Please believe me. Please don’t take me to the station. Please.
Waylon’s nostrils flared like an angry bull, but he did as asked and pushed into the main room. Juliette followed at his heels, careful to avoid Detective Ronan Duffy’s piercing gaze on the way past.
A cop. A fucking cop .
Her heart was beating far too quickly, her chest on fire with panic. But what more could she do? It was too late to make a run out the back door. She certainly couldn’t go to the station. Jenny wasn’t her real name—Waylon knew it. And if the cop figured out that the name she used here was fake…
None of them would get out of this alive.