Slowly, he lowers the gun, the tension in the room snapping like a taut string. He sets it into the back of his pants and calls out, “Is this enough?”
“What?” My head whips around, and before I can process his words, officers emerge from the shadows of the library, their guns drawn but not aimed. Wes and Chief Donovan.
My heart stops. The police. They’rehere.
Thank God they’re here.
“It’s h-him,” I stammer. “He’s the murderer. He…” My words trail off as I realize Rafael just talked to them, didn’t he?Beforethey revealed themselves. He knew they were here.
What the hell is going on?
“Y-you’re a cop? You’re a…”
“I’m not,” Rafael says, his gaze soft but unbearably heavy. “Are you okay?”
He reaches for my hand, but I yank it away like his touch burns. If he’s not the murderer, but he’s not the police, either, then… “Whoareyou?”
“I’m a private investigator,” he says in a worried voice. “Scarlett, you need to come with me.”
“No.” I back away, shaking my head. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Scarlett, please.” For a second, he looks like he’s in pain. Like he knows he just ruined everything. “You’re safe now, okay?”
“N-no.” I cross my arms, trying to get my body to stop shaking. It must be the adrenaline drop. “Y-you pointed a gun at m-me.”
“I know.” His hand falls to his side. “I’ll explain everything, I promise.”
Promise?Sure, I’m relieved he’s not a murderer, but he still lied abouteverything. Just how many promises has he made and broken already? “I think I’m tired of your promises, actually.”
Chief Donovan steps closer. “Better listen to your boyfriend, sweetheart. You need to straighten out a few details, and things aren’t looking good for you.”
“Seriously, Chief?I’myour suspect?”
“You knew details about the crimes that weren’t disclosed to the public.”
I breathe out slowly, letting the implication sink in. “So… this whole time, you’ve been focused on me? Please tell me you have other suspects.”
His eyes dart to Rafael, who raises both hands in frustration.
Un-fucking-believable.
“And now they might finally start focusing onactualsuspects,” Rafael says, his voice sharp enough to cut. Then, softer, to me, “But we still need to talk.”
“Why?” I croak. I can barely stand to look at him right now.
He reaches forward, as if he’s going to tuck my hair behind my ear. Noticing the way my gaze darts to his fingers, his fist clenches and settles back at his side. “Because someone’s trying to frame you for these murders.”
So this is why Rafael never let me into his place—because the walls of his living room are smothered with photos, papers, and notes scribbled in a chaotic network of suspicion. Celeste, Vanessa, Theo. There’s a shot of Mrs. Prattle watering her garden, one of Paige laughing.
And he’s done this in the space of weeks?
It’s so eerie, so invasive, that it feels like my skin is crawling.
I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until Rafael sets a steaming mug in front of me, startling me into a sharp inhale. The scent of coffee mingles with that of his cologne—a warm, woodsy scent that used to make me feel safe. Now it’s just another reminder of how deeply he’s infiltrated my life.
“Here. This’ll help,” he says carefully, like he’s afraid I might shatter if he speaks too loudly.
My hands tighten around the mug, and I fix my eyes on the chipped edge of the table without thanking him.
