And I know who was waiting there for her because the fuckerwavedat me.
Rooke.
What are the odds he just happened to be around when all this shit went down? I’ve been running calculations in my head like fucking Einstein since last night. They all lead me to the same conclusion.
It was him.
Allhim.
I don’t know how, but I can guess why.
He’s a fucking psycho who wants my girlfriend, and wouldn’t hesitate at framing me for something like this to get me out of the way.
Thatcher shakes his head, sighing when I fume silently instead of replying. “We’ll be talking to Miss Lee later. First, let’s discuss Melissa Parker.”
“I didn’t touch?—“
I cut off when he flips over the stack of photographs. The top photo is a picture of my back.
“Know what we call these marks, Mr. Jordan?” Thatcher taps his pencil on the photo, continuing before I can answer. “Defensive wounds. Because they’re usually made by people trying to defend themselves.”
Defensive wounds? Ha. Looks like I tried to fuck a tiger without its consent.
“I can explain?—”
“I certainly hope you can, because it sure looks likeshetouchedyou. A lot.”
I think I’ve ground off all the enamel on my teeth by now. “Those…that was Haven.”
“I don’t follow,” Thatcher says slowly, face as deadpan as his voice.
Sick fuck. He knowsexactly?—
“She likes to scratch me when we fuck,” I grate through clenched teeth.
Thatcher uses the back of his pencil to slide photo after photo off the pile. Each shows a part of my body covered in marks. It’s obvious some scratches are fresher than others. Deeper.
My wrists.
My forearms.
My chest.
My shoulders.
My back.
Some on my lower stomach that I don’t remember Haven giving me.
Even the faded teeth marks where Rooke bit me in the hospital bathroom.
Fuck, Haven. Fuuuck.
He stops at a photo of my neck. “Does she also?—”
“Yes. She also likes trying to choke me.” I huff out a humorless laugh. “Tryingbeing the operative word.”
“Big hands for such a small girl.”
