“I wouldn’t get involved in that pissing match if I were paid to be there,” he mumbled.
Jaw clenched, I sighed and followed them in. “Great. This’ll be a blast.”
Thirty minutes into the interview, their subtle digs and passive-aggressive snipes at each other were bordering on unbearable, right about the time my lack of sleep and hours spent crouched on the floor, frozen in fear, hit me like a freight train.
“After you ran back to the tower, how long did they stay outside? Did you confront them? Or get a look at them? A general height or sex, maybe?”
Yawning, I prodded my index and middle fingers into the spot at the base of my skull that throbbed like an ice pick chiseled into the soft tissue, trying to massage away the rapidly blooming migraine. “I’ve already said, I’m not sure how long it was. An hour? Maybe more? It was fully dark when they chased me from the woods, and they left before dawn. But their footsteps sounded heavy, like mine. I’m pretty sure it was a man.”
Tate nodded, jotting down way more than I’d actually said in his notebook. He’d angled his body between me and the exit, and I couldn’t shake the sense my words were being assessed as more than an eyewitness account of the killer.
“Right. He’s told you all he can remember for now. It’s time to go get some rest,” Dad said, cutting off the next question. He eyed where I massaged my neck.
Special Agent Sunglasses narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t been thrilled Dad joined me for the interview—or interrogation—but honestly, I was glad for the support. “Sure. If you can think of anything else, give me a call,” he said, rummaging for a card before passing it to me.
Tate eyed the card. “He already has my number, ya know, since I’m the one on this case.”
Sunglasses merely raised an eyebrow in answer.
The pain in my head shot down my left shoulder blade, pulling my neck tight like a rubber band. I’d struggled with terrible migraines in the first month or so after my diagnosis.“Probably onset by stress,”my neurologist had said, but they were less frequent now with the help of preventative medication.
I knew this one would be a bitch, though, with how fast it’d settled in. “I think I need to lie down for a bit.”
Dad stood. “Do you have your meds with you?” he asked quietly.
Shit.I shook my head. “Left them back at the tower.”
“We can see if the pharmacy here will fill the prescription for you. I’ll give them a call on the way home.”
Nodding, I made to stand.
“Just a sec,” Tate said, putting a hand on my shoulder to keep me in place. “Can I ask you something in private?”
Sunglasses stared at Tate’s hand before he sighed. “I’d like a quick word with Mr. West, anyway,” he said, gesturing for Dad to exit the make-shift interview room.
“You good?” Dad asked, glancing between me and Tate.
Not really, but I said, “Yeah, I’ll be right out,” anyway.
Dad followed the Special Agent out of the room, but left the door open behind him.
My head pounded. The overhead light was too fucking bright, and I grew nauseous in the stuffy room. Closing my eyes against the glare, I asked, “What do you want?”
Migraines and pleasantries didn’t mix.
“Would you be willing to volunteer a DNA sample?” Tate asked, peering at me in that searching way again. I was fed up with how those looks made my skin itch.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Facial expressions hurt, so I tried to stay calm. “I told you the truth about last night. I didn’t have anything to do with Janine’s disappearance, and I haven’t hurt anybody. Take my fucking DNA if you want it, I don’t care. But why are you so insistent I’ve lied about something?”
He leaned away, eyes wide with surprise, as if he were shocked by my tone. “I’m doing my job. It will help us rule people out, more than anything. Do youwantthe person responsible for this to be caught?”
“Doing your job,” I parroted with a humorless laugh. “If you were doing your job, you’d be out there, finding the real killer—not accusing innocent people. But that’s happened here before, hasn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?” he asked, eyebrows knit in confusion.
My head pounded, but once I’d opened the floodgates, I couldn’t stop. The rage that’d simmered since I left the lookout bubbled up and boiled over.
“The police were so goddamn sure Charlie—Charles Randolph, I mean—was the killer, but here we are! It’s all happening again! And he was nice! Kind! What could he have possibly done to make them think he murdered six fucking people? Why couldn’t they find him?Did they even look? Did they just leave him there, cold and alone, a convenient scapegoat? I know he spoke with a police officer that day—why wasn’t he offered protection?”
