I keep shaking my head, hoping it’ll get my brain back online so I can come up with something smart to get this guy off my back.
“Strange. Says he knows you. Said you were friends a few years back.”
So exactly which part ofour historywasn’t I supposed to tell this guy, Kai? Because from the sounds of it, Thatcher bought the fucking rights to your autobiography and you’ve already got the first draft done.
Asshole.
“Oh.” I slap my forehead. “Kai!” I point at Thatcher. “Now I remember.”
He stares at me for a second and then ducks his head to write something down. “I saw the video, Miss Lee. Now, unless you’re claiming that wasn’t you…?”
God, whohasn’tseen the video?
Oh. Right. Me.
I could have. The VibeFeed account Bastian made for me has opened up a lot of doors…but why watch a replay when I can still smell the dog food and feel that collar around my throat at 2 a.m. most nights?
“Yeah…it’s, uh…it’s all coming back to me,” I mutter miserably.
“Good. So let’s circle back. Any reason you decided not to report this assault?”
Whichone, Detective Nosy?
I clamp my lips closed, fighting the urge to giggle maniacally. Thatcher’s serious face is sobering me up real good, but now I’m veering off into hysteria.
“I, uh…” Can’t tell him I was too fucked up on drugs. That I decided to rather have a threesome with my professor and ex-bff than head to the police station. That so much fucked up shit has happened since, Ezra’s bullying pales in comparison.
My clothes itching after my dash through the rain. I scratch the back of my neck, wincing. Between the hangover brewing behind my eyes and the damp clothes scraping against my skin, my body feels like it’s staging a full-scale rebellion.
“Um, I need to change out of these clothes. Could I go upstairs to fetch?—”
“No one’s going upstairs, Miss Lee. It’s an active crime scene up there.”
“Where’m I supposed to sleep tonight?”
He rocks back on his heels, giving me a ‘not-my-problem’ shrug and a ‘just-doing-my-job’ purse of his lips.
“Let’s go back to the night of the Rain Dance.”
“Let’s not,” I mumble.
Itchy, grumpy, fucking pissed off.
Homeless…again.
Thatcher frowns. “What?”
“What?”
Thatcher gives his head a small shake. “The dance.”
“What about it?”
Thatcher’s lips tighten, but somehow he remains calm. Which is infuriating, because I want him to blow a fuse and leave me alone. He points at me with the back of his pencil.
“Just tell me what happened at the party.”
“Tonight’s party?” I say, feigning idiocy. “Why? Think it’s got something to do with this?” I wave a hand in the vague direction of upstairs, where I assume the break-in happened, because I can’t see anything out-of-place down here.
