Chapter Five #2
“Caleb helped me move in. Alfie was passing by. Lottie celebrated with me the day I got the keys. We drank champagne and ordered Chinese food. No big deal.”
“No big deal. Right.” He leans on the kitchen island, the one part of the room that is finished, running his finger along the counter.
I slap my bag down, ignoring his obvious discomfort. I’ll keep this professional, and then we can move on with our lives. I take out the documents and transcript from today’s interview. We have the CCTV to watch as well, which will take some time.
“Want to split up the tasks?”
He huffs out a breath, pushing his fingers through the longer strands of his hair. “Like in college?”
“Yeah, I’ll drag you up from a B+ to an A if you work with me.”
“So mean today, princess.” His jovial mood seems to have returned, as his eyes dance with mischief.
He was mean first. No need to call my house a shithole.
“I don’t think I’m being any different than usual,” I snip, because I just can’t help myself.
“No? Not purposely trying to hurt me by leaving me out of things?” he goads, running a hand over his mouth.
“Those things didn’t happen today.”
“No, but you only told me about it today.” His eyebrow arches, and I have to turn away when the scrutiny of his gaze heats my cheeks.
I don’t like being mean. I’m a good person, most of the time.
He just brings out the demon in me that’s usually reserved for the week before my period, when my boobs ache, my cramps set my body on fire, and everything pisses me off.
“You called my house a shithole.”
He laughs, twisting around and holding his hands up, indicating the unfinished wall, the cabinets with no doors, the floor with no flooring.
Yes, I know it’s a shithole, but I don’t go to his house and tell him his army-issued bed isn’t made correctly.
No. I don’t tell him that he could do well to shut his mouth and then kick him out.
I’m a professional, giving him a small tidbit of information that I just know will make him feel all kinds of left out.
Attempting to shake the blush from my cheeks, I avoid his gaze by reading through the transcript Anthony provided.
“Wait . . . did that bother you? It’s a construction site. That’s what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.” I refuse to look at him. “Do you want to review the transcript or the CCTV footage first?”
He grips the edge of the counter, his chin dipping down as he tries to meet my eyes. I won’t let him. “Hold on, are you mad at me for that? After all the shit we’ve given each other over the years. This is the hill you’re going to die on?”
“Don’t be so dramatic. I’m not dying on any hill. I’ll review the CCTV first.”
I move the laptop into place so I can grab the email from the detective.
I peek up at Jonesy, who has his brows raised, watching me with an expression mixed with annoyance.
He looks around the room again, not understanding.
What he doesn’t realize is that I know it’s a shithole.
The worst part is I knew he’d hold it against me.
And this is why I will absolutely not be going to his place.
I don’t want to see some fancy shiny new apartment.
He coughs awkwardly, taking the files and reading through the transcript again. After a few minutes, and highlighting a few passages, he looks up.
“What are your thoughts? You didn’t seem to agree with Detective Bic— Detective Williams,” he asks, correcting himself on Anthony’s name.
“Are we sharing theories, or are we going to write up our reports individually?”
“I’m up for a little collusion, princess. I don’t do this line of psychology, so I’d be happy to hear your theories.” His voice is teasing, as if he’s trying to bring me around, and I’m too tired to keep up my mood, so I let my shoulders relax, taking in a soothing breath.
I think for a moment before responding. It could be a trap. It could be a way for me to give him my thoughts so that he can use them against me later. But if that were the case, he would probably try to be nicer to me. Calling my home a shithole would not be a good tactic.
“I’m not convinced he’s guilty. The evidence sure makes him look like he is, but I don’t know. Look at the CCTV footage.” I turn the laptop toward him and click play.
“Jesus . . . he just grabs her by the throat like that. You can see her face—she’s terrified.”
I shift awkwardly in my seat. We’re huddled together now, almost cheek to cheek, as we continue watching the footage.
I can smell his minty shower gel. The rough feel of his uniform brushing against my leg.
The coarse fabric sends a shiver across my skin.
I don’t hate the feeling. I don’t even hate him.
Not when he’s being professional and horrified on this woman’s behalf.
Not that I didn’t expect him to be, but a lot of people in my field, police officers especially, have seen a lot of violence.
They become desensitized. It’s refreshing to hear someone acknowledge how horrific this is.
And for it to be him . . . I feel validated in a way that is unexpected.
I’ve never wanted him to understand me before, but now we’re here, in this investigation together .
. . I’d rather have him on my side than not.
“Tell me what you don’t see,” I say, my voice low and soft as I lean in a fraction more, twisting my head to watch him.
His thick brows are furrowed, watching the footage, his eyes darting around the screen.
My chest floods with nostalgia for our college days.
The look of concentration he would get when reading a case study.
Jonesy, Alfie, Lottie, Caleb, and I would all study together, taking turns to bring snacks and eventually alcohol when we realized studying was more fun if there was a reward behind it.
I had the biggest crush on Jonesy back in college.
I adored him, really. He was so handsome and clever, and we were constantly trying to outdo each other.
Our competitions were fun, and he never got angry when I beat him.
It all changed when he kissed me.
Years of buildup. And I mean years. We had studied for an undergrad, a master’s, and then we were in our PhD when we kissed.
I had been dying to know what his lips tasted like for years.
And when he finally pressed his lips against mine, he cradled my face as if I were something so precious to him.
He smiled against my lips, kissing me over and over until I swear it felt like a promise.
My heart had inflated. I knew it was real. I knew the wait had been worth it.
He left the party soon after and didn’t call me to say he was leaving.
He went on active duty with the army a few days later to finish his PhD research in the field.
He never called, never wrote. And I never forgave him.
I was humiliated. The kiss obviously meant something to me and absolutely nothing to him.
Not even enough to warrant a call or a text afterward.
So when he returned, I let the punishment begin.
Punishment for humiliating me, for making me want things he clearly didn’t.
I remember the look on his face that first night back.
Pure elation quickly morphed into confusion and then, with a shake of his head, fury.
And that’s when the real rivalry started.
I keep my focus on his eyes as he watches the screen. His brow knitted together in concentration. I roll my shoulders back and shake off the lingering memory of his lips on mine as the video finishes.
“You can’t see his face at all in this,” he says.
“Exactly.”
“So why are they convinced it’s him?” He turns to me, and I feel his breath on my lips. We’re so close. I lean back, eager to put some space between us.
“The clothes are pretty significant. There is footage of him in the bar wearing the same outfit earlier that evening.”
“But here he’s wearing a baseball cap so low you can’t see his face,” he adds, running a hand over his neatly trimmed beard.
“True . . . but is that a coincidence? Someone wearing the same T-shirt with the same motif on it? Or is someone trying to frame him?”
“You think he’s being framed?” He sounds surprised, and a tinge of doubt settles in my throat.
I shrug, hiding my hesitation. “I have no idea. But the man in that interview room was convincing. I don’t think he had anything to do with it. Or, at the very least, his memory loss is genuine.”
“Do you want to—”
The doorbell interrupts him, and I slip off the kitchen bar stool, steadying myself with my hand on his forearm, the corded muscles flexing beneath my touch.
“Expecting someone, princess?”
“No, but don’t worry, I’ve been answering my own door for a long time. I’m sure I can manage.”
I swing the door open, Detective Anthony Williams standing at my door in dark jeans and his signature black T-shirt.
He’s holding a pizza in one hand and a case of beers in the other.
His dark brown eyes melting into his pupils, fanned by unfairly long lashes.
It’s not the first time he’s popped round during a case.
He would swing by during The Poser case, too, but now Jonesy is here, it’s more than a little awkward.
“Hey.” I turn around, hoping Jonesy doesn’t see before I step out onto the porch, pulling the door so it’s nearly closed. “I’m just working the case with Dr. Jones.”
“He’s here?”
“Yes.”
“In your home?” His eyes widen, and I see the disappointment on his face.
“Anthony—”
“I’m just surprised.” He expertly balances the pizza in one hand and the six-pack in the other.
“I told you, I’ve known him since college. We have a dinner club together once a month. It’s not a random person.”
“You told me you hate him.” He lifts onto his toes, attempting to peer through the crack in the doorway and down the hallway to my kitchen.