I should have lawyered up as soon as they cuffed me to this table, but I’minnocentfor fuck’s sake. And who’d I call, anyway? Only guy I know is Emerson, our family lawyer.
But he conspired with Ezra to get me booted out of the frat. I wouldn’t call him if he could grant me eternal life.
“Told you already,” I mutter, trying not to move my mouth too much. It’s not about the pain—I just don’t want to keep opening up my split lip before it gets a chance to heal.
“That’s why I said ‘again,’” Thatcher says, politely enough to set my fucking teeth on edge.
I sigh, dropping forward to rest my head in my hands, fingers delving into my hair. “I was at the Airbnb the whole day until I met Kruger?—”
“That’s Sean Kruger, correct?”
I sigh out, “Correct,” before continuing. “I met him at The Hollow Point. We were there for a couple hours?—”
“What time did you meet?”
“Nine? Ten? Fucked if I know.” I yank at the chains. Thatcher doesn’t even flinch. “Told you, if you gave me my phone, I could see when I got the Uber!”
He turns a page in his notebook. “Exactly how many hours did you stay at the bar?”
Here’s where I’m fucked, because I still haven’t figured out what to tell him. So I just stick with what I know…which is fuck all.
“Don’t know,” I mutter.
Thatcher leans forward and gives me another one of those wan, polite smiles that means everything and nothing—depending how fucking paranoid you are. “I suggest you try very hard to remember, Mr. Jordan.”
“Told you, I blacked out.”
“Real convenient.”
“Real fucking inevitable after ten shots of Jäger and some tequila.”
Thatcher tuts under his breath, but I’m not sure if he’s judging my alcohol consumption or my refusal to cooperate.
My teeth grind together. I want to tell him to go fuck himself, but that won’t help. Nothing helps when you’ve got no alibi.
“So you blacked out at this bar and remember nothing for the rest of the evening?”
“Not until I woke up on Kruger’s couch this morning,” I mutter, tugging on the neckline of the bright orange county-issue jumpsuit they put me in. It feels like canvas, smells like bleach.
“With no memory of how you got there?”
“Kind of what happens when you black out.”
“Or when you need an alibi.”
“That’s not?—“
He doesn’t let me finish, which is a recurring theme in his interrogation technique. Accuse me of something—lowkey or fucking outright—then moving on before I can defend myself.
“You also don’t remember what time you went back to the Airbnb?”
“It was right before I went to the jeweler. And like I said, that guy’s got to have security footage or something, so you can seeexactlywhen I?—“
“Except Haven was asleep, so she can’t confirm when you arrived, or when you left…or even if you were there at all.”
“I bought her breakfast!” I flinch, rolling my lip inside my mouth to check if I’m bleeding again.
The memory comes out of nowhere. I should have thought it through before blurting it out—Thatcher’s look tells me I’ve just dug myself deeper.
