At that, the smallest smirk curves his mouth, but I blink, and it’s gone.
The police station seems busy beyond the walls of Lincoln’s office; phones going off, people—uniformed and plainclothes—scurrying about. The door at my back has a glass pane in the center, and I can still hear some of the commotion, but it’s mostly drowned out.
Mostly, but not enough to let me forget Drayton U is dealing with a possible serial killer. A murderer who is targeting people I’ve had some sort of relationship or moment with, big and small.
That, of course, is why I’m here, no matter what the detective said about my brother being a suspect. The more I thoughtit over and spoke about it out loud with Faust and Sylvan, I came to the conclusion the easiest way to get me into this chair without a warrant of some kind is to tell me my brother is a suspect.
Faust said nothing to that; Sylvan looked at me with what felt like pity.
But I’ll let Lincoln spell it out now that I’m here.
He leans back in this chair, and the thing creaks with the motion. It’s not leather; something plastic, no high-back. Maybe if he solves these murders, he’ll get a raise.
Resting his interlinked hands on his sternum, he cocks his head. It doesn’t feel judgmental so much as open. Like he’s gearing up for a long listening session of me telling him exactly what he needs to know.
But I don’t speak.
I know better.
Seconds pass. Somewhere in the distance, a phone rings, and a woman’s voice barks out an order for someone else to answer it.
Still, I wait the detective out.
Then he sighs as if I’ve won, but I don’t take it as a real victory. It’s all part of the game, isn’t it? Just like the bullshit reason he gave for bringing me down here in the first place.
“Where is Nolan Devine?” He asks it like someone else might ask after the weather, but the question throws me off guard.
Am I still in denial? But he can’t actually believeNolanis a suspect, can he?
“You don’t want to talk about my brother.” I lift my chin and keep my arms on the thin armrests, forcing myself not to fidget or stammer my words.
His brows draw together. “Why do you say that?” He could, of course, be acting, but his question sounds startlingly genuine.
“You don’t really believeNolanhad anything to do with,” I wave one hand around, “any of this, do you?” I hope he hears the sincerity in my voice.
Nolan is a lawyer. He makes half a million a year. USD. He lives in NYC; he’s already a senior partner at his firm. On what planet does he have the time or the inclination to sneak to my university and stab a few boys?
I want to say all of that, but I leave the ball in the detective’s court.
“You certainly don’t seem to,” he comments, as if he’s observing me closely.
I’m tired of feeling like I’m being watched. And yeah, maybe that started with Nolan breathing down my neck about food intake, calorie balance, fast days. But that’s a far cry frommurder.
“What is it you want to know?” I snarl the words and I know I’m breaking the calm, cool, nonchalant bitch I’m supposed to play and instead stepping into the real one, but I’mtired.“Ask me exactly and stop playing these mind games with me.”
He arches a brow and lifts one finger from his clasped hands. “There are no games, Miss Devine. I’m simply curious why you think your brother could have no involvement in the string of mutilated bodies turning up on campus, all of which have a curious connection to you.”
My pulse hammers hard in my throat and I don’t think about how he knows Mitchell bumped into me the night he died or if he’s aware Ace and Sylvan had an altercation the night the former was found.
I won’t offer any more information than he gives me, but I can dump in his lap what he’s asking after.
“My brother lives in the States,” I say, exasperation in my tone. “He’s successful, professional, I’ve never seen him hurt a fucking fly.” Not physically, anyway. Regardless, I don’tapologize for the curse word as I sit up straighter in my chair. “There would be a flight log or an indication he crossed the border each time a victim turned up. He can’t be in two places at once, so how the hell do you think he?—”
“Correct,” Lincoln interrupts me, his voice so soft I stop talking abruptly. He glances down at his desk and I go rigid in my chair.
Immediately, I know he’s going to tell me something that I’m not going to like.
I wish Faust and Sylvan were here. And I know they’re just outside in the waiting area at the front of the building but right now, it feels too far away.
