“None whatsoever.”
“Oh.” Thatcher doesn’t sound surprised. He sounds…curious. “I thought your lawyer would have?—”
“Broken attorney-client privilege?” Rooke cuts in smoothly, even sounding condescending. “Mr. Jordan’s own lawyer was unavailable. I merely referred Barnes. Nothing more.”
“Makes sense.” But Thatcher doesn’t sound convinced. “Well, congratulations, Mr. Jordan. You’re a free man.”
I should be relieved. I should be fucking ecstatic.
Instead, all I can think about is that Rookeknew.
Barnes works for him. Rooke had to have known about the results, and that my case was dropped.
But because he is—and always will be—a cruel, sadistic bastard, he decided not to tell me.
“Thanks,” I force the word out through numb lips. “It’s good tofinallyknow.”
I focus on the carpet again, but not before I see Rooke’s eyes narrow just a fraction at my tone of voice.
“So what can I do for you, Deputy?” Rooke stays standing beside his desk, leaning on the knuckles of one hand. There’s glass by his shoes, but no fucking way am I crawling over there to dust it up.
“I’m not sure how extensive your knowledge of the Parker case is.”
“Not extensive at all. Unless you include campus gossip.”
“Were you aware that she was missing for several days before her appearance on campus?”
I look up at Rooke before I can stop myself. He’s watching the deputy with an unreadable expression.
“I noticed she wasn’t in my class, as I do whenever one of my students slack off.” Rooke makes a soft sound. “I’m guessing that wasn’t the case.”
“So the last time you saw Miss Parker was at your study group that Sunday?”
Rooke’s mask stays on, but the hand on the table tightens just a fraction. I don’t know if Thatcher notices, but I won’t put anything past the pencil-pushing cop and his Sherlock fetish.
“Come again?” Rooke sounds genuinely confused.
“The study group. You did have a study group that weekend, didn’t you?”
Rooke just keeps staring.
Thatcher gives a self-deprecating chuckle, takes out his damn notebook, and flips back a few pages. “So, uh, I’ll admit that was a stab in the dark. Let me see if I can find…”
“Deputy—” Rooke says through a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose like the man is giving him a headache.
“Just a second, it’s right…” Thatcher drags his finger down the page and stabs. “Ah! There it is. This text surfaced during the investigation, when Miss Parker declined a dinner invite from a young man the Sunday of her disappearance.” Thatcher clears his throat. “Can’t tonight. Study group with Dark Daddy. Might run late.” Bright, too-shrewd eyes latch back onto Rooke. “So you’re not the ‘Dark Daddy’ she was meeting with?”
Rooke lets out a condescending huff. “Christ. My hard-earned tax dollars at work,” he mutters under his breath, but loud enough that both me and Thatcher can hear him clearly.
“I’m sorry, Professor?” Thatcher says calmly.
“Study group is clearly a euphemism, Deputy,” Rooke replies, just as calmly. “I rarely run study groups, and I certainly never meet with students alone.”
Thatcher gives him an ingratiating smile. “See, this is why I came to speak to you. You’re not the kind of man students go around disrespecting like that.”
“Disre—” Rooke begins with a frown, but Thatcher cuts him off.
“Dark Daddy,” Thatcher scoffs. “Kids these days.”
