Page 141 of Dancing in the Dark

“Sure. Almost.” Archer settles back in his seat and sips his coffee. “But then there’s the matter of how she ended up in the bay.”

Slater’s eyes shift the way a rodent’s do when the lights come on. “What do you mean?”

“She didn’t die in the water. And she didn’t disembark your father’s yacht alive.” Arch leans to the side and frees his little notebook from his back pocket. Straightening, he flips it open and glances up with a friendly smile. “You were so honest with us when we first came through with questions, we thought we could run a new angle by you and see what you think. Admitting you fucked her soon before her death?” He whistles in the back of his throat. “That was ballsy.”

“Because I knew I was innocent.” He folds his arms. “I had no reason to lie.”

“Exactly. So, then I suppose our next question would be: did you know she was dead before you dumped her off the side of your father’s yacht?”

“What?”

“Because failure to report a death is a misdemeanor. Failure to report a suspicious or unattended death is a felony.”

“But I didn’t kill her!” He takes a wary step back. “I didn’t do nothing.”

That’s a double negative, dummy.

“Improper disposal of a corpse is a felony,” Archer continues. “Especially when that disposal is to hide the death or avoid investigation. Moving her constitutes tampering with physical evidence. That’s another felony.”

“I had nothing to do with any of that!” He backs up another step and places his hand on the door handle. “You literally cannot prove any of it, and I’m not stupid enough to confess to something I didn’t do.”

“He’s gonna run,” I murmur.

“Nah. Also, dumping her body, failing to render aid, failing to report her death, and failure to tell the truth when we ask you these questions, are all versions of obstructing justice. Those can be misdemeanors or felonies, depending on the severity of each.”

“And then there’s falsifying statements to the police,” I add. “Don’t run, Slater. You know you’re innocent, right? Stand tall in your beliefs. Let the judicial system do its thing.”

“Bullllshit!” He yanks the door open. “You’re trying to intimidate me. This is intimidation!”

“This?” I hook my thumb toward Arch. “He’s sitting. Granted, I’m standing, but I’m honestly trying to enjoy my caffeine, even though I know it was a poor choice and will keep me awake most of the night.”

“You overreact, don’t you, Carson? We had a bunch of free time this week, so we looked you up online and saw a thing about this girl you asked out in high school. It was a swing and a miss, cos she wasn’t interested. Which is fine and all.” He shrugs. “We all strike out every now and again. In fact, he—” He tips his head my way. “Sorta asked a woman to marry him today. Sorta didn’t. He can be kinda messy sometimes, so no one actually knows if it was an official proposal or not. Regardless, he didn’t get the yes, and ya know what? That’s okay.”

Shaky all over, Carson’s eyes jump to mine.

“It’s not like he got super pissy about the no and went on to create fake revenge porn to pass around his high school, though, right?”

“Slight overreaction,” I tsk. “That poor girl never deserved that.”

“Then there’s the twelve—” Arch peeks back at me. “Twelve? Yeah.” Back to Carson. “Twelve different luxury sedans, all written off because you consider yourself a bit of a street racer, except you can’t actually drive for shit.”

“So? That’s not illegal!”

“It is, actually,” I chuckle. “But just so you know, your driving sucks because you have a habit of overcorrecting and making things worse.”

“Which is why, when Johanna Waltham had a fatal asthma attack on your father’s yacht and you watched her die, you figured, hell, I didn’t kill her, so this ain’t my problem. Then you overcorrected by dumping her body. No need to let a chick and her faulty lungs ruin a good night.”

“You’re guessing! And guessing isn’t proof. A judge will laugh you out of the courtroom.”

“Uh huh. And now, here we are.” A wolf on the hunt, Arch sets his coffee down and stares into Carson’s frightened eyes. “You’re starting to panic, aren’t you? Your hand is on that door. We haven’t shown you our proof yet, so you’re standing your ground, but your brain is screaming at you to overreact. It wants you to run.”

“This is harassment.” He tugs it wider. “I won’t tolerate such disrespect.”

“He’s gonna run,” I singsong, setting my coffee on the table and freeing up my hands. Just in case. “You didn’t ask anyone else on the boat to help you dump her, because those motherfuckers have loose lips and zero loyalty. This was a one-man job, wasn’t it?”

“You’re wasting my time. Latisha!” He twists toward the lobby. “Call my father down here. Immediately.”

He asked for his daddy. Not a lawyer.