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But the question forces me to stop and think.
“I’d have been backstage,” I say slowly.
“That’s what the staff assignment board says,” agrees Kenna.
“If that’s what the board says, why are you asking me?”
“No one remembers seeing you during the time of the delay,” says Greeley.
“We paid a security firm to keep people away from the stage,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “Of course there was nobody else back there.”
“Other staff members were allowed backstage,” says Burke. “As were the contestants.”
“A security oversight, certainly,” says Greeley, smug and justified.
“All the contestants would have been called down to the competition floor by then,” Ty points out. “We have them on camera.”
Greeley nods. “Which brings us back to Mr. Hicks.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets. “If the staff assignment says I was backstage, then that’s where I was.”
Except that was the day we were delayed at the start of the ceremony. Which means… Cooper.
That was the day I shoved Cooper into that storage closet.
Shit. Shit fucking hell.
Which means I have an alibi. Except I can’t tell my colleagues anything without outing Cooper, or without outing our relationship.
Not a relationship. Involvement. Whatever.
I turn back to the window to buy myself time to regain my composure. There’s nothing else I can say at this point that will convince them; I certainly can’t tell them the truth.
“Mr. Greeley, I know you said this is urgent, but the show is on a deadline here,” warns Burke in a low voice.
“Right, right,” says Greeley. “Mr. Hicks, I strongly urge you to reconsider your position on this. We’d like to see this investigation resolved as soon as possible. Any information you can provide would be useful.”
Christ. The guy really does think he’s playing in some police drama. I nod, unable to force any niceties. He might sign my paychecks but politeness has its limits, even for me.
I hear Greeley and Burke chatting as they exit the conference room until the door snaps shut behind them.
“What the hell, Drew?” Ty yanks on my elbow until I turn to face him. Kenna’s standing at the table watching us, gripping the back of her chair so hard her knuckles are white.
“You know it wasn’t me,” I say. Ty’s mouth flattens to a thin line. “You know it.”
He pauses long enough to make my stomach clutch.
“I know,” he says finally with a sigh. “What I don’t know is why you wouldn’t tell Greeley where you were.”
“I was backstage.” The protest sounds weak, even to me.
“I believe you,” says Kenna. “But backstage where? Can anybody vouch for you?”
“Since when do I need somebody to vouch for me?” I ask, ducking the question. I run a hand through my hair, frustrated as all hell. “Since when is this about me and not about figuring out who the hell would want to sabotage a cooking competition?”
“There are obvious answers to that,” says Ty. “DQ’d contestant.”
“Or current contestants wanting early access to the list of winners,” says Kenna.
