"The way he just talked about you? Makes it sound like you did it."
"He said I'm not popular. And that I punched Kristen. Only one of those things is true. And it doesn't mean I killed her."
"Doesn't matter. It only has to LOOK like you had something to do with it. When they were going after Braden for Andrea's death, all they had for evidence was him fighting with her that night. That was all they needed to haul him off to the police station. I'm just saying, you hitting Kristen looks bad. And everyone knows you hated her."
"I didn't do this," I say, looking him in the eye.
He shrugs. "I believe you. I'm just not sure a jury will."
"It's not going to get to that point because I'm not going to be charged for something I didn't do."
"I wouldn't worry about it. Dad's lawyers are fucking sharks. They aren't afraid to go after the cops. All it'll take is one screw-up and Dad's lawyers will be threatening a lawsuit against them."
The doorbell rings and I freeze, assuming it's the police again. Why would they come back? Brock already told them I wouldn't talk to them. Did they come back with a warrant? Are they here to arrest me?
"Go!" I yell at Trystan.
He laughs as he walks to the door. "At least if you're in jail you won't have to go to school."
"Way to support me, Trystan." I shut the door as he leaves.
Moments later, someone knocks on my door.
"Trystan, go away!" I yell. "I can't deal with you right now."
"Rumor, open up."
It's Brock.
I open the door, peeking around him to make sure he's alone. "I'm not talking to them. I thought you told them to talk to your lawyers."
"It isn't the police. Someone else is here to see you."
"Who?"
"Roman Novak. Jackson's father. He wants to talk to you. I thought he was here to—" Brock shakes his head. "Never mind. Come out to the living room. He's waiting for you."
Brock seems nervous, and not scared-nervous, but the type of nervous you get when you're around someone famous. I didn't think Brock got that way. He's always so confident and sure of himself. I didn't think he ever got nervous.
"Roman," Brock says with a big smile. "This is Rumor, my niece."
Roman is standing in the living room, his phone in his hand, wearing jeans and a white button-up shirt with a brown leather jacket over it. He looks just like Jackson, at least in the face. He's tall, but doesn't have Jackson's muscular body.
"Hi," I say, going up and shaking his hand.
"Rumor," he says. "Interesting name."
"My mom was an artist. She didn't like traditional names."
"Would you like something to drink?" Brock asks Roman. "I have a large selection of bourbon."
Roman looks at him. "Typically I'd say yes but since I'll be heading to the police station soon I'll have to pass."
"Perhaps a water instead?"
"Yes. That's fine."
Brock hurries off to get it, which shocks me. I've never seen him offer anyone anything.
