I shake my head. “No. Grant wouldn’t—he’s not—he’s the most controlled guy I know. He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t?—”
“Then explain this.” The female cop slides a photo across Bennett’s desk.
It’s Paul. Or rather, Paul’s face. I pick it up. “Are you saying Grant did this?”
“He did,” my brother confirms. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Madeline and Georgia share a look.
Paul is bruised, bloody, and has one eye swollen shut. The photo is dated the day after the boathouse.
“Your calm, collected friend,” she says, “beat the living shit out of another student the day after the Murphy was murdered.”
We could tell them. Tell them everything. About the boathouse, the body, and what we saw. But then we’re all complicit. I’m sure we’d get hit with tampering with evidence or hindering an investigation. Who the hell knows what they’ll come up with trying to scare the shit out of us so we talk more.
“I don’t know anything,” I say. “And I sure as fuck don’t talk to the police.”
The cops exchange looks. The female one closes her notebook with a snap.
“Fine. You’re free to go. For now.” She fixes me with a stare. “But if you’re protecting him, if you’re lying to cover for a murderer, you’ll go down with him. Think about that.” She pauses, but I know there is more. “You have a temper too, don’t you? How close were you and Grant?”
“That’s enough.” My brother steps in. “If you want to question Luke, you’ll do it with a lawyer present.”
“I can already tell you she’s going to tell you to go fuck yourselves.”
“Luke.” My brother stares at me, wanting me to shut the fuck up.
“We’ll be in touch” is all they say before leaving the office.
Bennett braces his hands on his desk, looking exhausted.
“Luke,” he says quietly. “If you know something...”
“I don’t,” I lie, and I hate how easily it comes out.
Madeline’s hand finds mine. Her fingers are ice-cold.
“We should go,” she whispers.
“I have a couple of calls I have to make, but this conversation isn’t over.” We all just nod. I’d rather not say shit. I don’t need to rack up more lies to my brother. Things have started to shift for us.
We walk out of Bennett’s office, past the students still gathered in the halls, past the whispers and the stares. Everyone knows Grant was escorted out, and we were questioned. That shit will spread like wildfire. By tomorrow, everyone will think we had something to do with it.
Madeline stops in the hallway, turning to face me. Her eyes are wide and scared, but there’s determination. Damn, my girl has fucking grit.
“We need to talk to Emily,” she says. “Now. Before they decide we’re suspects too.”
I nod. “Yeah. We do.” It’s our one good lead. She holds a piece of the puzzle we need to solve who really did this. The key to Grant’s freedom.
But as we head for the exit, I can’t shake the image of Grant’s face on that camera. Calm. Purposeful. He was walking into the boathouse at four a.m. like he had business there.
And I wonder—how well do I really know my new friend?
Chapter Thirty-Five
MADELINE
The text to Emily takes forever to send. I don’t want to spook her too much, but I also need her to understand we need to meet up. This is serious now. My thumb hovers over the screen, typing, deleting, and then typing again.
Need to talk. Urgent. Can you meet in an hour? Library?
