“Of course.” His voice is perfectly calm, if a touch surprised. “What brings you by?”
“Hope I’m not interrupting.” Thatcher steps into the office, and I swivel my head down, focusing on the dustpan as I sweep up the glass.
Don’t look up.
Don’t look guilty.
Jesus, is it just me, or does itreekof cum in here?
“Just had a few questions for you.”
“Do I need to call my lawyer?” Rooke says.
I expect Thatcher to laugh. Maybe Rooke does too, because when Thatcher just keeps staring at him, he thins his lips and gestures to one of the visitor chairs.
“Please, have a seat. I’m always happy to assist law enforcement in any way I can.”
I’m so busy staring at Rooke that I slice my finger on a shard of glass. My hiss draws Thatcher’s attention, his thick brown eyebrows drawing together in surprise when he recognizes me.
“Mr. Jordan?”
“I’m filing,” I mumble.
Thatcher looks at the dustpan in my hand. At the glass scattered around.
“Filing,” he repeats slowly.
“I, uh—” I gesture vaguely at the mess. “Iwasfiling, then?—”
“Coordination was never my T.A.’s strong suit,” Rooke adds dryly. “Luckily, he makes up for it in other ways.”
Thatcher’s gaze flicks to the bookshelf. To the books scattered on the floor.
“Like I said, zero coordination.” Rooke almost sounds like he’s holding back a laugh, and that makes heat rise to my cheeks.
Thankfully, Thatcher doesn’t push. He makes a noncommittal sound and settles into the visitor’s chair. I try to get back to cleaning up the mess I made—that part wasn’t a lie—but the cop keeps watching me with that steady, unreadablecopstare of his. “You must be relieved about the news.”
“News?”
Thatcher’s eyebrows rise. He glances at Rooke, then back at me. “Your lawyer hasn’t been in contact with you about the case?”
I crawl a little closer to the desk to sweep up more glass. Thatcher bends to pick up something off the floor, but toys with it instead of tossing it into the dust pan.
Jesus, it’s everywhere. Good thing I got onto my knees on the other side of the room, not?—
“What’s happened?” I blurt out.
Can’t think about that now. Can’t think about thatever.
“The DNA came back.” Thatcher leans back in his chair, still frowning. “Results were inconclusive. The DA dropped your charges.”
The words don’t compute. I stare at him, dustpan forgotten in my hands.
“It’s over?”
“Case was closed a few days ago.” Thatcher’s gaze slides to Rooke. “Strange that Mr. Barnes hasn’t contacted you already. Any idea why that is, Professor Rooke?”
I turn to look at Rooke. His expression hasn’t changed—still calm, still composed—but there’s a tension in his jaw that wasn’t there before.
