Wainwright was quiet for a moment. He leaned back in his chair, rested an ankle on his knee, and folded his hands into his lap. “You met Detective Winter last year during the Nevermore murders.”
“Is that in your file?”
He smiled.
“That’s private,” I added.
“It’s not really a secret,” Wainwright countered. “Not anymore.” He looked at the papers. “How would you describe your relationship with Detective Winter?”
“Well, I can’t be certain, but I think he likes me,” I replied, holding up my left hand to show off the band on one finger. “Why am I being interrogated?”
“You’re not. We’re talking.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday.”
Wainwright let out a breath through his nose. He shut the file. “You’re agitated.”
“You’re damn right I am.”
“Why?”
“I know that’s a rhetorical question—you’re hoping to glean some sort of proof I’m responsible for Calvin’s disappearance and make this an open-and-shut case. Poke and prod all you want. It’s not going to prove anything more than I love Calvin. And with every single second that ticktocks by, my very foundation is falling out from under me.”
Wainwright considered my response.
I gave him nothing but the sincere upset that’d been festering inside me since this morning.
Straightening, Wainwright leaned over the table, elbows resting on the folder. “Tell me what happened.”
“You’re the cop. I think you have access to the investigation Calvin was working.”
“No. This morning. Tell me what happened.”
I turned my head and studied the large, public-school-style clock on the wall. “We don’t have time for this. Calvin is going to be dead in forty-one hours.”
“Says who?” Wainwright asked, his voice still neutral.
“I sure as hell hope you’re not serious,” I replied. “The person who abducted him. The Collector. My final note said I had forty-eight hours before my reward—Party C—Calvin—would be forfeited.”
Wainwright removed a pen from his suit coat pocket. He clicked the top absently.
My eye twitched.
“I read the note,” he confirmed. “It doesn’t say he’ll be dead. Why do you believe the wordage implies this outcome?”
“Uh. There are two unidentified chopped-up bodies and a third person has been missing for five days. Call me melodramatic, but I’m pretty sure Frank Newell is dead somewhere. Maybe in pieces. I’m not willing to take any chances. I refuse to be called in to identifyparts of Calvin.”
Wainwrightclick,click,clicked the fucking pen some more. “How do you know about Mr. Newell?”
“Calvin told me.”
“He told you details about an ongoing investigation?” Wainwright confirmed, raising an eyebrow.
“We tell each other all sorts of secrets,” I said, deadpan. “Sometimes we even stay up late, write in our diaries, talk about boys.”
“I’d appreciate honesty without the sarcasm, if you don’t mind.”
“Why am I being questioned?” I protested. “This is harassment.”
