…who was the guy in the alley?…
So much shit happened after he sent that text, I never got to ask him what the fuck he was on about.
Male DNA under my nails.
Some guy in some alley.
What the fuck happened Friday night?
And why does Rooke keep infesting my thoughts like a fucking parasite?
“Why did he do it?” I blurt out. “Rooke. Why did he hire you?”
Barnes’s expression hardens. “I’m not at liberty to discuss?—“
“Bullshit! You’remylawyer, right? That means?—“
“I may be your lawyer, but Mr. Rooke is my client. I am not obligated to share our private communications with anyone, even you.” He tilts his head, looking genuinely curious. “Would you prefer I withdraw from representation?”
I clench my jaw. “No.”
“Then I suggest you focus on staying out of trouble, Mr. Jordan. The charges may have been dropped for now, but this investigation is far from over.” He pulls a card from his breast pocket. “Call me if Deputy Thatcher contacts you. Actually, call me ifanyonecontacts you. And for God’s sake, kid, don’t talk to anyone about anything.”
I take the card. Stare at it mutely for a moment as my mouth turns dry.
“Thanks,” I mutter as I watch Barnes drive away.
But thanks for what? For getting me out? For being Rooke’s puppet? For making me owe that fucking psychopath even more than I already do?
No.
I laugh, shaking my head.
For making me realize just howtrulyfucked I am.
The Airbnb feels hollow when I step inside.
“Haven?”
The bed is unmade, sheets tangled like someone had a rough night. But her duffel bags and textbooks are still here.
That’s when I hear the shower. When I notice that the bathroom door is closed.
I have a midterm later this afternoon, but Haven’s only starts tomorrow—Rooke’s being the first. Maybe she slept in and only just woke up.
Or maybe she just got back from wherever she spent the night.
I sink onto the couch, head in my hands. The exhaustion hits me all at once—two nights of stress, fear, and endless fucking questions. And underneath it all, that new horror curling in my gut.
Whose fucking DNA was under my nails?
That it’s Rooke’s is the only logical conclusion—and a theory wild enough to earn me a permanent tinfoil hat.
He could have been at the bar.
Could have found me there, drunk and angry, and done…something.
But I don’t remember. I don’t remember any of it.
