Page 124 of Twisted Knight

“I’m Detective Martin.”

“Holden.” I choke over my own name.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” he asks, and I shrug as he does so. “I’m sorry, son. About your brother. That you had to go through that. All of it.”

He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. All I can do is nod and stare at my hands as I run them up and down my thighs.

“Yeah. Thanks,” I whisper. “Do you know who did it?” When I lift my eyes to meet his, I already know the answer. No.

He gives a subtle shake of his head. “Not yet. We have some leads. A partial plate number—a person thinks. Possibly a white car.”

“It was a white car. A Mercedes,” I say. “Two people in it.”

“Thank you. That will help narrow down the license plate numbers starting with the vehicle. We’re also looking to see if there were any cameras in the area that caught anything.” He shifts and reaches into his front pocket. “This was at the scene. It belong to you?”

My breath catches when he holds out the square silver lighter and places it in my hand. The weight of it makes my hand dip as I run my thumb over the engraved crest, the etching now stained with my brother’s blood.

“No,” I whisper.

Clank. Click. Clank.

“It’s—I’ve seen it before.” Was it Rhett in the car? Was he the passenger who got out?

Think, Holden. Fucking think.

“Where?” the detective asks.

I try to churn up the rage that roars through me, but I can’t. I’m numb. Empty.

“Son?”

“At the country club. Where I work.”

“Which one, son?”

“Westmore Country Club,” I say as he winces at the three words. A wince I’ll later remember. “It—Rhett Rothschild. It’s his.”

He nods very slowly, his pen poised, as if he’s afraid to take down the name. “It looks like his,” he says.

“Shouldn’t this be in a bag? My fingerprints.” I push it back toward him but he just meets my eyes.

“I’m sure there are plenty out there that look like this. It’s best you don’t jump to any conclusions. Let me investigate before we accuse anyone of anything.”

“It’s his,” I murmur, relieved when he finally takes it back and pockets it.

“I just told you not to say that. The last thing we want is someone getting themselves in trouble making false accusations when it’s clear your mom needs you here instead of in a jail cell for something silly like that.”

I stare at him, eyes blinking, heart pounding, every sensation just … dulled. His threat falls on deaf ears.

Dead.

Mason.

I choke back a sob.

“We’re chasing everything we have,” he says, patting my knee and clearly uncomfortable with my sudden show of emotion.

“My little brother is dead”—I struggle to use the word—“do something. Please.”