Growing bored of Vaughn’s strategy, I break the silence. My lawyer wouldn’t approve, but whatever. It’s not like I killed Matthews and anything I say will be used against me in the court of law. This won’t get that far.
“You know the accusation won’t stick.”
“You sure about that?” Vaughn barks, his voice clipped as he hits record on his little device. “State your full name for the record.”
“Carter Beckett.”
He narrows his eyes, a hint ofoh shitetched into every line on his face. Now he knowswhythe accusation won’t stick. He fucked up the warrant.
“Not Willard?” he drawls, faking ignorance.
“Would you like to see my driver’s license?”
He’s clearly taken aback, but he marshals his expression fast, pretending this little hiccup hasn’t blown his entire endeavor out of the water. “What’s your relation to Rhett Willard?”
“He’s my father, but you already know that.” I lean further back, hoping this chair has a more comfortable angle.
And Vaughn keeps staring as if he can catch me lying without a lie detector. Maybe he can. Hailey says he’s a master at reading people and Rhett agrees.
“Where were you the night of Jonathan’s murder? November seventeenth,” he grits out, every syllable sharper than the last, a staccato rhythm bouncing off the walls.
“You know where I was, Vaughn.” Unlike his crackling voice, mine holds steady despite the storm brewing inside me.
Dante’s words bounce inside my mind, a survival mantra to help me along:“Interrogation rooms are like poker tables. Never show your hand. Leave emotion at the door.”
“Then you’ll have no problem stating it for the record, Mr.Beckett.”
I take a deliberate sip of coffee and flush the survival mantra down the drain. “We both know I’m here because Hailey told you about a guy called Nash Wright who’s been lying to her for two fucking months, and you took a magnifying glass to him. Tome.”
His lip twitches and his fists clench, a flicker of doubt or surprise shadowing his features before his stoic façade returns, masking it all.
But it’s too late. I already know I’m getting to him.
He’s good. I’ll give him that. Despite the minuscule slip-up, his eyes wrinkle at the corners, feigning amusement. Most people wouldn’t notice the tics that betray his real feelings.
Most, however, doesn’t meanall.
I know where to look and Charles Vaughn is far from amused. He’s a ball of nerves.
“Where were you the night of the murder?” he insists.
I drag a heavy hand down my face. He’s a cop through and through. Everything must be spelled out,ts crossed andis dotted for the fucking record so it holds up in court.
“I was at Lakeside College until about midnight. After that, I went looking for my girl.”
“Yourgirl?”
“You heard me,” I deadpan. “When I couldn’t find her, I headed out of the Berkshires toward Ohio, so I was on the interstate the rest of the night.”
His forehead lines, another uncharacteristic flicker in his eyes, but he catches himself so fast I’m not sure if it’s skepticism or surprise.
“Ohio? Why Ohio?”
“Where else would I start? I didn’t think you’d be careless enough to hide Hailey at home, but I figured you’d want her closer this time.”
The tension in his shoulders ratchets up as he leans forward, muscles feathering his jaw, a vein pulsing on his neck.
Something is off.
