Layton tilts his head slowly, like he’s admiring me digging my own grave. “So, he doesn’t anymore?”
I shake my head too fast. “I mean—I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”
“Since when?”
Jax’s body goes rigid, but I can’t focus on him, not when the detective is staring straight through me. I need to lie. I need to think. But the pressure builds, and my mouth moves before my brain catches up.
“A while,” I say.
Layton doesn’t blink. “How long is a while?”
There’s no right answer.
My pulse pounds in my ears as my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I need to say something, anything. But every option feels wrong, suspicious. I’m trapped.
Jax huffs. “Since I told him to stay away from my girl.”
I sag.Yes! Yes, that sounds good. I cling to it, nodding once like it’s the truth I meant to tell all along.
“Hm,” the detective muses, frowning as he flips his notepad closed. “So you didn’t see him last Thursday night?”
My blood runs cold, every muscle locking back up at the mention of Thursday night. My throat tightens, and I know my face betrays me. I can feel the slight tremor in my hands as they cling tighter to Jax’s shirt, can the detective see it?
“Thursday night?” I repeat, the words coming out like I’m stuck in quicksand.
Layton doesn’t look away. He knows. He fucking knows. Or at least he thinks he does.
“You didn’t see him?” he presses a little too smoothly, like he’s already piecing this together. The silence stretches between us, heavy with the weight of what’s being said without actually being said.
“No,” I say, the word almost a whisper. “I told you, I haven’t seen him in a while.”
It sounds like a lie, even to my own ears. A shitty, desperate lie.
Layton watches me, and I swear I can see the calculation happening behind his eyes. “Are you sure? Because we have CCTV of him heading on foot in the direction of this neighborhood—yourneighborhood—on Thursday night. Do you have any idea why he would be heading here if not to see you?”
“He was heading here?” I ask despite the fact that I now know I’m screwed.
“We pulled the data from his cruiser—excuse me. Youdoknow Marshal Wayne is Cloverwick PD, correct?”
I nod absently, my hands growing clammy.
“Right. Well, we pulled the tracking, and this is the only residence in the area that he’s visited in the last year.”
My heart skips a beat, my mind reeling as I process how easy it was for them to connect Marshal here. I’m not sure if my chest is tightening from panic or if my heart is finally going to give out.
“Oh.” My hand travels to my chest.
There’s nothing I can say that will refute a tracker. There were plenty of times when Marshal showed up in his patrol car. Stupidly, I thought that by him walking here Thursday night, that we would be safe.
“So, again, did you see Marshal Wayne on Thursday night?” His eyes don’t leave mine, dissecting every movement I make, every breath I take.
The world closes in like a noose around my throat. He knows I’m full of shit. But I can’t take it back. It’s too late. Marshal isashes. If I admit that he came here Thursday night, I would also have to admit what we did.
I force air into my lungs and straighten. “No,” I say with the resolve of a gavel coming down, drawing a line, and I’m on the very wrong side of it.
Layton watches me for a long beat as I try to hide the fact that my heart is about to explode from my chest. I hold my breath, praying tears don’t flood my eyes, until finally, he nods.
“Okay, then,” he says, not sounding convinced. “If you change your mind, here’s my card.” He pointedly slides the card past Jax.
