Or I’d be in handcuffs right now.
“I was at the gym,” I say.
“Late at night? Alone?”
“I go to a 24-hour gym. It helps me clear my mind.” I keep my eyes on his, watching the way his jaw tightens when my voice doesn’t falter. “There are cameras. They’ll show I was there.”
He nods slowly, scribbling something down. “We’ll check that. But tell me, Dr. Andrews—did you ever feel the need to hurt Mason? After he hit you?”
“No,” I say, my voice steady. “I didn’t want revenge. I wanted to move on.”
Detective Brooks leans forward. “So, you’re telling me Mason hit you, hard enough to leave a bruise that’s lasted several days, and you never thought about hurting him back? Not once?”
“No. I just wanted out.”
Brooks scoffs and throws up his hands. “You expect me tobelieve this shit? The man was violent toward you, and you’re saying you felt nothing? No anger? No resentment? Come on, Dr. Andrews, you’re a psychologist. You know better than anyone that’s not how it works.”
I don’t blink. “I understand human behavior. I also know how to control my emotions.”
He slams the file shut with a snap, and for the first time, irritation leaks through a crack in his professionalism. “Bullshit.”
I brace myself.
“Bullshit,” he repeats, his voice louder now, more intense. “You expect me to believe you just walked away from a guy who hit you, humiliated you, made you feel likenothing, and not once did you think about getting even?”
I meet his gaze, not allowing myself to flinch. “I didn’t kill him.”
Detective Brooks smiles, but there’s no humor in it. “You didn’t kill him? Really? Because it sure as hell looks like you did.”
Before I can respond, he reaches into the file and pulls out a stack of photographs, slamming them down on the table in front of me, one after the other. The impact makes me jump, and I glance down at the images, my stomach twisting.
Mason’s body. Broken. Bloody. And Carved.
Actions have consequences.
The words are deep gouges across his chest. A message. Forme.
My breath lodges in my throat, and I force myself not to look away, not to react. I’ve seen pictures like these before, but never of someone I knew. Never of someone who had been a part of my life.
Detective Brooks watches me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. “Do you recognize that phrase?” he asks. When I shake my head, he curls his hands into fists. “‘Actions haveconsequences.’ You’re telling me that vengeful statement is mere coincidence?”
I swallow, forcing my gaze away from the gruesome images, the horror etched into each one. My voice, when it comes, is steady but strained. “I understand why you think I killed Mason, but I’m telling you that I’m innocent.”
“Look at him again!” Brooks jabs his index finger on one of the photographs, his voice harsh. “Look at what was done to him. Then tell me again that you didn’t think about getting revenge.”
I swallow hard, my pulse racing, but I manage to keep my face void of any emotion except shock. “I didn’t.”
He leans in closer, his eyes locked on mine, studying every flicker of emotion, every microexpression. “Well, whoever did this, took their time. Theyenjoyedit, Dr. Andrews. This wasn’t just about murder. This was personal.”
I fist my hands in my lap, the weight of his words pressing down on me. I force myself to breathe, to stay calm. “I agree with you, but I didn’t kill him.”
Brooks slams another photo down, this one worse than all the others. It’s a close-up of Mason’s face. His eyes are wide, frozen in a twisted mask of sheer horror, pupils blown with the fear he couldn’t escape. His mouth has been forced open, and a candle, half-burned, is lodged between his lips, wax smeared grotesquely across his chin. The wick is charred, blackening the edges of his mouth, indicating excruciating pain.
“Since this is your specialty, Doctor, do you care to explain why Mason has a candle in his mouth? Or why it was lit?”
I stare at the image, bile rising in my throat. Then I cover my mouth with my hand and briefly close my eyes, pulling in breath after breath until I’m certain I’m not going to vomit. DetectiveBrooks grins with a victory that’ll be short-lived. My reaction is not going to send me to jail, but I’ll be a prisoner of this image for the rest of my life.
Ghost.This has to be his handiwork. But how do I explain that to the detective without sounding crazy? How do I convince him that this isn’t my revenge when that’s what it looks like?
