“Yes. It does.” I clear my throat, hedging around what I know without giving it away. “I’m sure you have access to both of their phone records now. Can you see if they texted one another the information?” What I really want to ask is,Who told Jackson I’d fucked Will? Who texted me those creepy fucking texts before Will burst into my apartment? Because that’s probably your guy.But I don’t say it and I don’t reveal any of that information. I don’t want to tangle the webs any more than they’re already twisted.
Lincoln glances down at his clasped hands on his worn wooden desk, a polite smile on his face. “We may. We might not. It’s not as easy as everyone seems to think it is.” The last part he mutters under his breath and I almost believe him. “Regardless, neither of their phones have been discovered.”
My heart drops. I frown at him. It’s not acting. “What?” I heard him just fine.
“Did you see them with phones?”
Jackson had to have his the night before he died, because he texted me to say he was outside my place when he picked me up. So someone took it…afterthey murdered him?
“No.” That’s all I say.
Lincoln stares at me, and I wonder if he can see my mind racing. Then he just asks, “Is there anyone else who could have given Will Barbour your address?” He shrugs. “Your roommate, maybe?”
No. Donotdrag Cynthia into this. She has no idea Will even came to our place.
I shake my head vehemently. “She didn’t have Will’s info; she never talked to him. And she definitely wouldn’t give him our address without telling me.” My tone is bordering on angry, definitely defensive, but I don’t bother trying to hide it.
It’s all true.
Lincoln nods as if in agreement, but I know that’s just an act. “Was she there when Will came to your place?” he asks quietly.
I feel my cheeks burn. “No.”
“Does sheknowWill came to your place?”
That heat crawls down to my chest. “No.”
“Why didn’t you tell her? Are you two close?”
“She’s my best friend. And I didn’t want to worry her. His visit wasn’t pleasant.” I remember his hand around my throat. The first time I truly feared for my life. But I try not to let that visceral fear show, because there’s some parts of what happened that I don’t want to reveal.
Mainly, they concern Sylvan. I’m once again lying by omission, but I can’t help it if the detective’s not asking the right questions.
“Tell me what you mean.” Lincoln leans in toward his desk, closer to me, although there’s still plenty of distance between us.
My hand grows clammy, wrapped around my phone in my coat pocket.
“Did he hurt you?” Lincoln presses when I don’t immediately answer him.
“No. But he was angry.” My voice is barely more than a whisper, but it’s not an act.
“How so?” Lincoln is patient. Calm. He’s eyeing me for any tells, I know.
“He didn’t know I knew Jackson was… dead.” I clear my throat. “When he found out, he asked why I didn’t reach out to him.” Which seems odd now, if his phone was stolen. How would I have reached out?
I’mwatchingLincolnnow, and I swear I see his eyes darken, but it could be my imagination.
I don’t mention the part about Will accusing me of confessing to Jackson about our night together. For some reason, it feels like territory I don’t want to venture into. At least not without a lawyer present.
“Was he visibly upset?”
Again, his hand around my throat, preventing me from breathing, it enters my brain.
I blink it away.
“Yes.”
“Crying?”
