Thatcher looks away, crossing his arms over his chest. When he looks back at me, it’s with the air of someone whose social battery is at one percent. “Could you explain what ‘kind of’ means?”
“We, uh…fooled around. But, not like,sexsex.” I clear my throat again, take another sip of coffee.
Fuck, it’s hot in here.
“That’s not how Mr. Jordan described it.” Thatcher tilts his head, leaning in, forearms on the table. “You realize if this goes to trial, you’ll be testifying under oath, Miss Lee?”
“Do you want me to like tell you every little detail?” I mutter. “Why? What the hell does it have to do with anything?”
Thatcher glances down. “How physical was it?”
“Ph—” I cut off. “Like…we were just…rolling around like…” I blow out a haggard breath because Thatcher’s giving me fuckingnothing.“God, I don’t know! He fingered me?—“
“Did he give you those marks on your neck?”
I slowly close my mouth.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
“It’s…we…” I desperately want to rub my face, or pinch my lip, but I keep my hands jammed under my ass. “We kind of play-fight sometimes.”
“Play fight,” Thatcher repeats dryly.
“Like, you know. Play fight.” I shrug, making fists with my hands and wagging them in the air. “He kinda…holds me down.” I bite my lip.
“By your throat.”
I duck my head closer to the voice recorder so it’ll pick up everything I say. “Yes. By my throat. But it’s just for fun.”
“You enjoy being strangled?”
“Well, no, not—he doesn’t actually,like,strangleme.” I widen my eyes, laughing softly. “Come on, Deputy. You know what I mean.”
From the state of his face, he was born in a nunnery and sits down to pee. But I saw him with Melissa that one day after Kai wrecked our room. He knows all about sex. He’s just trying to rattle me.
It’s fucking working.
When he says nothing, just keeps staring at me, I blurt out, “You can check him. He won’t have her DNA on him. Just mine.”
“And you’d consent to a DNA test to prove it, of course,” Thatcher deadpans.
As he says it, everything clicks into place.
The hiss Kai made when I scratched him. It was hard enough to leave a mark…but for how long? What if he still had scratches on him yesterday morning when they arrested him? If he did, the police wouldassume?—
“I scratched him!”
“Excuse me?” Thatcher says, even though he doesn’t sound the slightest bit confused.
“When we were…physical. I—I scratched Kai. Like, a lot. All over his back and arms and stuff.”
That gets an arched eyebrow that makes me instantly regret saying anything.
“How convenient.”
Wait…what?
