I run out of my room through the house.
"Where the hell are YOU going?" Braden asks.
Turning back, I see him coming towards me, shirtless, a glass of what looks like Brock's bourbon in his hand.
"I thought you didn't drink," I say.
"I don't. Except when I'm being accused of killing some bitch."
I open the door.
"Hey!" he grabs the door from me and slams it shut. "You can't leave."
"I can, and I will. Now get out of my way."
He blocks the door. "You're accused of murder. You go outside that door, Kristen's mom might just kill you herself, if she hasn't already hired someone to do it."
"Her mom didn't accuse me of murder. Now get out of my way."
"Another Twisted Pine girl murdered." He laughs as he opens the door. "On her uncle's front lawn."
"Shut up," I say, racing past him.
When I get outside, I run down the street and see lights on at the house that never has lights on. I hurry up to the door and ring the bell.
The door swings open.
"Rumor." Jackson pulls me inside and hugs me like he's never going to let go. "God, I've missed you."
"I didn't think they'd let you out," I say, hugging him back. "I was so scared."
"I never should've been there. I swear someone did this. They set me up."
I pull away. "What do you mean?"
"Someone told them I did this. They're not even looking for anyone else. It's like they've already made up their minds."
"Is that what they told you?"
"I could tell by how they treated me. The questions they asked. They think I did this."
"But they let you go."
"Only because my dad knows the right people. He got me before a judge. It was supposed to take a week but it happened this afternoon. The judge set bail and my dad got me out."
"Now what happens?"
"I show up at court for the hearing. Unless I can prove my innocence before then.”
"Can you?"
"I don't know. I can't prove who did it and the cops seem to only want to charge me and nobody else so it's not looking good."
"No." I shake my head. "We're not letting that happen. I'm not letting them punish you for something you didn't do." I take his hand and walk farther into the house.
It's a stark modern house with very little furniture. There's a black leather couch in the living room with a glass coffee table in front of it, and that's it. The rest of the living room is empty.
"Let's think about this," I say, as we sit on the couch. "Who might have done this?"
