My fist tightens around my phone. “Why did you let Brett tag along?” Cold, flat words slice through the airwaves. “So you two could laugh while I squirm? Was humiliating me the plan?”
“God, no, Bree. It was nothing like that. You’re my best friend.”
I roll my eyes. Nothing screams bestie like screwing my lover. “Then explain it, Andee. What the hell was he doing there?”
“It wasn’t my idea. It was his. He’s such a douche. Why you stayed with him as long as you did—”
“Andrea. Stop.” My voice cuts through her bullshit. “Why was Brett in the woods?”
The pause drags on too long. Lies take time to build.
“He wanted to convince you to give him another chance. I felt guilty about our affair, so I agreed to help. His plan was to show up after I left, hike by your side, and win you over. You screwed everything up by leaving early. He tried to follow and now he’s dead. It’s all your fault.”
Plausible. Almost too plausible.
But the tears?
They don’t read like guilt.
They smell like fear.
“No… let’s try this on for size. Brett wanted me back and asked for your help. You agreed, but with your own agenda. Your confession made him pissed. He never meant for me to learn about the cheating. Let me guess, did he even call me a cold fish?”
“That part’s true. He didn’t want me to tell you, but I’m your best friend. You needed to know. I didn’t kill him. I loved him.”
“Okay.” Time to let the FBI sort this out. “Call this number. Ask for Hunt. Tell him exactly what you just told me.”
“No.” She sniffs. “You don’t understand. I can’t get involved.”
“Fine. You leave me no choice. Either you tell your version, or I’ll tell mine.”
Hanging up, I call my credit card company and write down my new numbers. A thirty minute walk later, I stride toward the turn-of-the-century courthouse, ready to break some balls.
Under the brick building’s keystone arch, I reach for the door handle, then freeze.
To my right, through an open window, I recognize Hunter’s voice. “I have no choice. I have to arrest her. Her ex was killed with her revolver.”
“Which wasn’t in her possession at the time.” When my night’s big mistake strides into view, I duck behind the shrubs, straining hard to hear the other man.
“So she says. Where’s the proof? Hers are the only fingerprints on the weapon.” While the fed’s argument might convince a jury, it makes no sense.
“Any intelligent person would’ve wiped the gun down,” says Kade.
Exactly. Two points for my side.
“I’m not saying I disagree. Nevertheless, the governor’s screaming. Social media’s lit up—everyone’s convinced there’s a killer in the woods. People are panicking. And in a state that lives off tourism…”
A pause.
In other words, I am totally fucked.
Hunt’s tone softens. “Better to arrest a damaged hero than admit there’s a boogeyman out there. Her lawyer can argue self-defense. Clearly, someone was stalking her. It shouldn’t be a stretch.”
“Give me twenty-four hours.” When the man who fucked me last night walks away from the glass, his voice becomes muffled. “I promise—either way—I’ll get you the evidence you need.”
My heart hammers. If I want to stay out of prison, I’ll have to find the murderer myself.
God. I sound like every cheesy thriller ever written.
