“How thoughtful. What did you buy her?”
I drop my gaze, trying my best to remember, but of course that’s where my memory fails me.
Briefly.
I hold up a finger, grinning. “I have a receipt.”
“Do you now?”
“You took all my shit, right? Well, check it. There’s a receipt somewhere in my shit for the takeout.” I stab my finger onto the desk. “That’ll tell youexactlywhen I was done at the jeweler’s.”
Thatcher doesn’t seem impressed with my amazing memory.
“So you got the takeout, went back to the Airbnb to have breakfast with your girlfriend, and then you went to the library together?”
“Not together. She’d already left when I got back.”
“You just said you brought her breakfast. Was that a lie, Mr. Jordan?”
“No! I bought her breakfast, but she wasn’t fucking there when I got back.” I wince at the sting on my lip, dipping my head to touch the cut. Still no blood.
“Where did she go?”
“I—” I try to clear my raspy throat. “I don’t know. She didn’t say.”
“Interesting.”
So interesting, in fact, Thatcher feels compelled to write in his fucking notebook in that chicken scratch handwriting I’ve been trying to decode since he flipped the damn thing open.
“So from the time you picked up the takeout to arriving at the library, no one can vouch for your whereabouts? Why do I have a feeling if I checked the timestamps, there’d be plenty of time for you to dump someone in the woods, Mr. Jordan?”
My hands are in fists, trembling as I force myself not to lunge over the table and strangle Thatcher.
Stop. Breathe.
But it’s not working. I’m practically panting with frustration, my head throbbing, stomach both queasy and grumbling with hunger. I’ve had one cup of coffee since I got here, and it was so shit I think it literally made my hangover worse. The terrible lighting in here isn’t helping—one fluorescent is strobing like I’m at Coachella.
Thank God someone knocks on the door right then, because I was either going to bash my head on the table or throw up.
Thatcher closes his notebook, stands, and strolls over to the door like he has nothing better to do. In this shithole of a town, that’s probably the case.
Ha, funny to think I’ve probably been his entire caseload since he arrived in Agony Hollow. First, beating on Ezra. Then tossing Haven’s dorm room. Now this?
Guess I’m in my villain era.
He has an inaudible exchange with whoever’s on the outside of the door and then comes to take his seat carrying a manila folder.
Don’t like that.
Don’t like that one fucking bit.
When he looks at me, I swear I see a glint of sympathy in his eyes. Or maybe it’s pity.
“Last chance for us to work this out, son,” he says quietly.
Jesus, I hate it when people call me ‘son’ like I’m fucking twelve.
I wrap my hands around the chain binding me to the table, pulling it taut. I haven’t wanted a cigarette this badly since the first day I quit. And, I mean, there’s been atonof weird shit going down since then.
