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They turn in their seats to face us, and I finally ask the question that’s been pricking at my brain ever since the twins laid out their logic for lying to Detective Dunagan.
“So, you guys are still trying to find the man in the black mask?”
“Yeah.” Dax nods. “But before you get too excited, I should tell you we haven’t got much yet.”
Fuck. I mean, of course not. We didn’t have a lot before my mom was arrested either. So it’d be asking for a miracle for the guys to suddenly get a huge lead just because we need it now more than ever.
But there have to be some clues we can start digging into, some threads we can follow.
“What do you know?” I ask, casting my gaze around at the four boys hopefully.
“We know whoever called in the tip to the police had a reason to pick your mom specifically—though whether it was because of something she knew, because it was convenient, or to send a message to you, we don’t know.” River braces his forearms on the back of the chair, a deadly serious expression on his face. “We’re assuming it was the man in the mask who tipped them off, as a way of trying to divert suspicion from himself.”
“I don’t know how he’s making her look so guilty,” I mutter, a flush of anger making m
y cheeks heat. “Someone’s planting evidence or something. Her lawyer said the cops found Iris’s DNA on the front grill of my mom’s car.”
“Shit.” Chase whistles. “So it could be someone in law enforcement then.”
“Yeah, or somebody with a few dirty cops in his pocket,” Dax shoots back, shaking his head.
“And you just described half the wealthiest families in Fox Hill,” Lincoln drawls, a note of disgust in his voice.
Jesus.
Is it really that easy to destroy someone’s life? To tear down everything they’ve built for themselves? Just knowing the right people and having the money to buy their complicity?
No wonder Mr. Black’s parties always seem to stink of corruption. My mom laughed and teased me about being a conspiracy theorist, but it turns out I was right to be suspicious. People can be fucking awful, and it’s not that rich people are necessarily worse—they just have the means to act on their depravity and get away with it more easily than people without that kind of wealth at their disposal.
“Well, at least that’s someplace to start. With people who might have the connections to pull this kind of thing off,” I say, trying to cling to the little bubble of hope that grew in my chest when I realized the guys hadn’t betrayed me.
There are five heads working on this now, instead of just my extremely fucked up and confused one. We have to be able to come up with something.
“Yeah. Low’s right.” Chase rests his hand on my knee again, rubbing at his chin with his other. “It might be a pretty fucking massive list, but at least it’s a list.”
There’s a murmur of assent from the other three, and we spend the next two hours sorting through all the people the guys think could match our criteria.
It’s a long fucking list, and there’s a decent chance the killer isn’t even on it. But we have to start somewhere, and action feels so much better than inaction.
At around one o’clock, Dax and Chase have to head out, and River takes off a few minutes later. I never even had breakfast, and I definitely haven’t had lunch, so I stand up, already thinking about what food is still left in my mom’s apartment. But before I can move toward the door, Lincoln’s hand shoots out and catches my wrist.
His grip is firm, and the feel of his skin against mine banishes all thoughts of lunch from my brain as fire shoots up my arm.
When I glance down at him, he’s staring at the blank movie screen on the wall ahead of us, his amber eyes gleaming in the dim, warm light.
“We okay?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah.” I take a step closer to him, standing right next to his chair. “We are.”
His gaze slowly slides from the screen to me. “I’m not quite sure I believe you, Low.”
“What?” I huff a breath. “Why not?”
“Because you’re still looking at me like I’m a stranger. And last time I checked, we weren’t fucking strangers.”
There’s a bit of a growl in his voice that sends a shiver down my spine, and his eyes spark with some emotion that can’t decide if it wants to be anger or hurt.
I look down at him, trying to sort through the complicated feelings I have for this boy. When I speak, my voice is low, my words halting as I try to articulate the emotions bouncing around my chest.
