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What ishedoing here? Did someone report us lurking outside the abandoned house? If so, surely a beat-cop would have responded. Not a detective.
I frown, look up at Rhett and then cringe at the angry red claw marks running down his cheek.
Oh God, this does not look good.
Stroud is advancing quickly, as if he considers us a flight-risk. There is no mistaking the vile hatred etched on both men’s faces. They look like they are about to pummel each other. And then it hits me: this is the first time Rhett has come face to face with the lead detective who accused him of killing my mother twenty years ago.
Shit.
My adrenaline spikes, my body preparing for the inevitable fist fight, one that would undoubtedly end in puddles of blood and multiple broken bones. But Rhett can’t get in a fight, I remind myself. He’ll go back to jail for life—both he and Stroud know this.
I jerk my arm out of Rhett’s hold and take a step forward, ready to launch myself into the altercation if needed. The spark of protectiveness surprises me. I am protective of Rhett, of my partner in this crazy story of mine.
“Detective Stroud.” I say like a suspect in a cheesy cop movie.
Stroud doesn’t look at me. He is studying the scratches on Rhett’s cheek. They are obviously nail marks from a woman, and I can only assume that the Detective thinks they are from me, trying to defend myself from something Rhett did—or was trying to do—to me.
“What’s going on here?” Stroud asks.
“He fell,” I lie.
“Fell, huh? Into a barbed-wired fence?”
Neither of us respond.
“What are you two doing out here?”
I shrug. “Just out for a drive.”
“Visiting Mrs. Taylor again, are you?”
I blink. “How do you know about that?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Did Janet call you after I left? Did she call you now?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
I stutter. “I, ah, just had a few questions for her. I felt it was important that she knew that I think I saw her son at my house; that we think he delivered the letters.”
“Why did you feel like that was your job to do that?”
I realize then that Stroud’s beef is with me, not Rhett. My stomach dips with nerves. Perhaps he has been patrolling the neighborhood since my visit to the Taylor’s.
He continues, “She was extremely upset by your visit, by your implication that her son could have, or is, somehow involved in your mother’s case from twenty years ago.”
Rhett is no longer staring at the detective, instead, he is scanning the woods. For what? Who? Crystal?
Didshecall the cops?
“Miss Stone, I’m going to have to ask you to leave Janet Taylor alone and I strongly suggest you stay out of this case. We’re working on it.”
I fist my hands on my hips feeling a blow of impatience. “Are you? Really? Have you even found Jesse yet? Have you found who delivered those creepy letters to my house? The person whothreatenedme? What about the half-fingerprint on the pendant? Come on, Detective, shouldn’t you be—”
“What can we do for you, Stroud?” Rhett cuts in, his voice cold as ice.
“This house is private property,” the detective says. “You’re trespassing.”
