Page 131 of Timid (Lark Cove 2)

Why did I feel like this was a trap? “Yes.”

“So you don’t know what else happened that night after you left.”

“Nothing else happened. I stayed until Jackson closed down the bar. Then I drove home and went to bed.”

“And when did you see Jackson again?”

“The next morning.”

He hummed and wrote down another note on the paper. He tilted it back, resting it at an angle to hide his notes.

“When was the second time you met Melissa Page?”

“The next day. I went with Jackson to visit her at her motel room.”

“And what happened?”

I took a deep breath, though it didn’t help soothe my hammering heartbeat. “Melissa introduced Ryder and Jackson. Then she told Jackson he needed to take Ryder for a while.”

That was the CliffsNotes version of our visit to the motel, but I was starting to feel like the less I shared, the better. If Sheriff Magee wanted details, he could drag them out of me one question at a time.

“Then what?”

“That’s it. We loaded up Ryder and his stuff, then left. We went to the bar for pizza.”

He set down the paper and pen, then steepled his hands by his chin. “And did you ever see or talk to Melissa again?”

“No.”

“Did she ever call to talk to Jackson or Ryder?” he asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” I locked my eyes with his. “I’m sure. If she called, Jackson didn’t tell me. Ryder doesn’t have a phone.”

“Okay. Let’s go back to the night of November sixteenth. You’re sure you don’t remember where you were that night?”

I shook my head. “Not really. Nothing specific stands out from that date. But can I check my phone? I might have something in my calendar.”

“Go ahead.” Sheriff Magee waved me on.

I dug my phone from my coat pocket and opened up the calendar, swiping to November. I kept everything in my calendar, mostly because I didn’t ever want to forget a birthday, special occasion or dinner with the girls.

I noted everything, including my lunch dates.

And November sixteenth was the day I’d had a lunch date with my dad at the school.

That was the day that Jackson had been in to discuss Ryder’s grades. It was the day he’d gotten that late-night phone call and disappeared for three hours and seven minutes, only to come home smelling like tequila and women’s perfume.

“I spent the night at Jackson’s house,” I told Sheriff Magee.

“And was he there all night?”

I looked up, wanting to cry.

Sheriff Magee’s eyes were waiting, his gaze gentle and understanding. He knew the answer already and he knew it was going to hurt to say it.