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Detective Murphy sits on the end of the couch, scribbling things down in a notepad. “Mr. Dundas also made some inquiries regarding having the video taken down. We have our people working on it as we speak; however, it’s all over social media now, and I don’t like the chances of it being removed permanently. Once this sort of thing goes viral, it’s like a wildfire tearing through dry shrubs. It just destroys everything in its path.”
I bury my face in my hands. “I see.”
“Unfortunately, that’s the world we live in, as ugly as it is. I’m very sorry, Miss Jones.”
I let out a slow breath. That’s what you get for falling for a rock star with more issues than fucking GQ magazine.
Detective Murphy leans forward, closing her notebook, her eyes fixed on my face. “We can’t arrest anyone until we identify the exact source of the tape.”
I feel cold suddenly.
“But wewillidentify the perpetrator, Sienna. I can promise you that much. You don’t have to make a decision today, or tomorrow even, about pressing charges. Maybe talk to a lawyer first and take their advice before you move forward with any sort of legal action.”
“What would happen if the person responsible for making the tape was found guilty?”
“They would most likely go to jail. The jail term would be determined by a judge, of course, but I can’t imagine it would be light.”
The officer’s words slam hard into my chest, and I fight back the tears. How has it come to this? What made me think I was ever going to get the fairy-tale ending?
Jail?
Do I want to send Kael to jail for this? I try and imagine him sitting in a cold, dark cell, alone. All alone. And my heart falters, beating twice as fast now to make up for the beat it just skipped.
Kael Jenkins is no longer my problem, though. He never really was. He no longer rules my heart. He violated me in the worst possible ways, and I’m just about to ask the officer what pressing charges would entail when Detective Ginsburg comes walking back down the stairs again carrying something in his hand.
A weird prickly sensation goes through me.
“Found this hidden on the top edge of the mirror in the master bedroom,” he says, handing it to Detective Murphy. “Smallest one I’ve seen to date. The things they come up with these days. Blows my mind.”
“Definitely some kind of recording device.” Murphy turns what looks like a tiny black battery over in her hand. It’s flat and round, the sort you might find in a remote control. “It’s probably encrypted for security reasons. Let me insert it into my laptop and see what comes up.”
“Oh, dear god, can we please not?” I groan, meeting the detective’s eyes, pleading with her to take pity on me under the circumstances. This whole thing is mortifying.
“We’ve already seen the tape, Sienna,” she explains, reaching across to put a hand on my knee. “None of this is your fault, you know that, right?”
Before I can respond, I hear a door open overhead, the sounds of a NASA launch spilling out and then cutting off again as the door closes.
Footsteps sound above, and I look up to find Bailey standing at the top of the stairs, shifting from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with the unexpected company.
“Bailey, it’s okay. These people are detectives. They’re here to talk to me about …the, uh… the graffiti on the wall across the street. They think they know the teenagers who did it.”
Bailey watches them warily, seeming more daunted than impressed by their presence. “Founded in 1845,” he says quietly. He glances at the male detective from the corner of his eye. “The New York Police Department, largest police department in the world.”
“Yes, that’s right,” I tell him. “And they’re here to help us.”
“Protects citizens and tourists alike.” He twirls a finger through his hair. “Deter crime. Keep people safe on the street. Blue uniforms, black boots. Carry handguns.”
“Detectives Ginsburg, Murphy… this is my brother, Bailey.”
Both detectives smile at him, and to my enormous surprise, Bailey doesn’t scurry straight back into his bedroom again. Instead, he takes the stairs one at a time, cautiously, like he’s not sure he really wants to be here, but he keeps coming down the stairs, despite whatever it is he has going on inside his head right now, until he’s about halfway down, and then he stops cold.
“He went into her bedroom,” he announces.
He tugs on the collar of his shirt and then continues whispering more jittery trivia under his breath regarding the police force and crime rates in New York City since the early eighties.
I shake my head when Detective Murphy looks at me curiously. “I’m sorry; no… he’s referring to something completely unrelated. He gets a bit fixated on things sometimes.” I glance up at Bailey, waving him over to me. He comes closer, sits beside me and practically curls into me when I hold his hand and stroke his hair. “Now’s not the time, Bailey. Don’t worry about any of that right now—”
“So, yeah, turns out I was right.” Detective Murphy interrupts me, a shrill ping sounding on her laptop, and she nods her head in a way that looks like she was expecting this outcome all along. “The video has been encrypted. From the looks of this file type, it’s been downloaded straight to a remote carriage service. We may be able to get more information from it on a physical computer instead of just my laptop. Do you own a PC or a Mac, Miss Jones?”
