Chapter 8
I walk into the Bean before Renner’s class on Tuesday and almost do a double take when Detective Grange is standing at the register, ordering. What the hell is he doing here? Is he here for me? I should just leave. I should, but he starts to turn and I’m frozen.
“Miss Sawyer.” His deep, velvety voice sounds shocked to see me. Maybe he isn’t here for me after all. “I was just on my way to your apartment.”
Okay, never mind.
“Oh.”
“I wanted to have a follow-up conversation with you about last weekend’s incident.” He nods to the table in the corner by the window. Our table. “Can we sit?”
“I actually was on my way to class—”
“It won’t take long,” he says with a smile.
“Okay,” I concede. “I’m going to grab a coffee really quick.”
“Of course. I’ll wait over there.”
I debate running out of here but know that won’t do me any good. I have about five minutes before I have to go over there to decide if I’ll lie or tell the truth about the journal. I go through thepros and cons of each in my head. I get my coffee and nervously sip from the iced latte as I approach him. I hope he can’t see my hands shaking. When I sit, he’s staring out the window.
“This is a lovely campus,” he says.
“It is,” I agree.
Grange clears his throat. “But I am not here to talk about Pembroke.” He digs through the briefcase he brought with him. “I’m here to talk about this.” He lays a piece of paper on the table and pushes it toward me. It’s Ryan’s eulogy, the one I wrote. “Do you know what this is?”
He knows I know what that is, and I’ve made up my mind about my approach. “It’s a copy of a page in my journal.”
“You don’t sound too surprised to see that I have it.” He cocks his head to the side.
“Colton told me you had it—he knew I wrote it based on what it says. I expected you’d come see me about it.”
“Hm.” Grange considers for a moment, looking a bit annoyed that Colton said something to me before he could. That I had time to prepare. “Can you explain to me how this came to be in Ryan Austi’s pocket the night he died?”
“I honestly don’t know. I didn’t give it to him if that’s what you’re asking.”
Grange studies me. “You and Ryan were not friends, I take it?”
“We... had a disagreement three years ago. But we were both over it.”
“You were?” he asks, glancing down at the page.
“Yes. I wrote that three years ago. I don’t know how or why he had it and I—”
“I looked into you,” he says. “History of substance abuse, arrested for drinking and driving, involved in an inappropriate student-teacher relationship last year.”
How does he even know about that? “Are you accusing me of something?”
“Just pointing out that you have a history of making bad decisions. If you made another one at that party, I’ll find out.”
I visibly swallow at the threat, and he begins to pack up.
“I didn’t give him that note, and I had nothing to do with his death, I swear.”
Grange puts the note back into his briefcase and stands. “If you ever happen to remember anything else from that night, please give me a call.” But what he really means is if I ever happen to want to confess, give him a call.
I purse my lips and nod, exhaling a shaky breath as he passes.
