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Sensing my indecision, DI Collins presses on. “It’s just that we’ve had a call from a detective from your neck of the woods. Says he’s investigating a death. A young boy. The family thinks he was intentionally poisoned. He wanted me to ask you a few questions.” He studies my face, and I can feel the color draining from my cheeks as he does. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that. Would you?”
I feel faint, my past reaching out to grab me when I thought I was so far from it all. “Oh…”
“We spoke to your roommate in the dorms.”
“Raquel?”
“Let me see.” He slowly pulls his familiar black notebook from his breast pocket, taking his time, making me watch in agony as he flips through the pages. “Ah…No. A Rachel. She said you never did come back to the dorms that night of the party. The one the boy died at.”
My throat goes dry as my stomach drops. I think I need a lawyer. Or a bathroom.
He nudges a bit closer, his black boot dangerously close to the threshold. “And there’s still that matter of what happened at the research center. With no witnesses and every single person in this town having a solid alibi, I’m afraid I can’t get much further without your help. Don’t you think we owe it to Clive to come forward?”
We are not living under the wrath of Mr. Bayne, Detective Collins.
And as far as Raquel telling someone this new piece of information… well, Raquel and I watched plenty of reality television end of season reunions together before she joined her sorority. I know exactly what to do when someone comes at you hard.
You turn the heat back on them.
I ask a question that’s been nagging at the back of my brain since DI Collins first came to the lodge to talk to the interns. “Why was Clive there that night? He didn’t have any reason to be at the research center. Did he?” I shake my head, pushing further. “He was never introduced to me, and I met the whole team that night at the bonfire. Clive wasn’t one of them. What was he doing at the center, anyway?”
I cross my arms over my chest, trying to push up my measly biceps in the threatening way Bayne so favors. The most I get is a subtle lift of my B cups. That could work. I push them higher. “I’m not so sure I owe Clive anything. I don’t even know the man. And like I told you?—”
A bright new voice enters the mix. “Ah! Cousin Kitty. I’m so happy to see you. Tell me, what’s the police doing here? Have you tired of my brother this soon and tossed him into the seas?”
There, standing beside a very serious looking Collins, is a bright, shining, jovial face of a good-looking boy with shaggy, dark blond hair hanging over mischievous eyes that look just like Bayne’s.
Brother? This must be Eamon! A wonderful surprise.
I play along. “Eamon. You’re late. I put the kettle on ages ago.”
“Cousins?” Collins asks.
“Distant. Romani people. From way back when my great-grandfather was still living in a caravan on the side of the road.” He moves past the detective, welcoming himself into the house. He gives the end of a lock of my hair a gentle tug. “That’s where she gets this dark hair from. Romani blood.”
He offers a kiss to my cheek and I accept, catching the clean scent of his soap.
Eamon moves to stand directly behind me, hands on his hips, making the most of his frame. “Anything else we can help you with, officer? My brother’s not too fond of strangers at the house when he’s not home. Especially with women and minors here.”
“You’ll be eighteen in days, Eamon,” DI Collins says, dryly.
“Still. I’d hate to get on my brother’s bad side.” Eamon’s tone drops to a threat. “Wouldn’t you?”
DI Collins gives Eamon a long look. Glances at me. Tips his hat to us and says, “If you think of anything, Catherine. You have my number.”
I thank him, closing and locking the door behind him.
“Catherine. That’s a pretty name.”
“I hate it,” I say, turning around to face him. “Too formal. Call me Kitt.” I walk past him, heading into the kitchen. “I did put the kettle on a minute ago. Want a cup of tea? Or I have iced tea. Your brother likes it.”
“Sounds good.” He pushes his shaggy hair out of his eyes. “Bayne and I tend to like the same things.”
“I’ve heard siblings are like that,” I say. I wonder if their taste in women is similar, I can feel his young teen eyes innocently taking in my denim-clad backside as I reach into the fridge to retrieve the pitcher of tea. I get two glasses down from the cupboard. “I wouldn’t know. Only child.”
His tone is touching as he confesses, “I wouldn’t know what to do without Bayne. He raised me.” The kid is obviously way more comfortable expressing emotions than his hardened older brother.
“He told me. Your dad had a heart attack,” I say.
