“Omigod,” I said. “I spend one night away, and you create a lair.”
Trey stayed focused on his math, his lips moving silently as he worked the equations. I was perplexed. We’d found a key piece of evidence. This was the moment when he typically planted his feet, folded his arms, and demanded that somebody call 911. But not now. Now he was the sole monarch of his very own investigative kingdom.
“What are you going to do if Finn drops the case? Because she doesn’t serve justice, she serves the Talbots. And the Talbots serve themselves.” I turned to face him. “Have you even told her about this one-man CSI operation you’ve got going on?”
He didn’t look up from his notebook. “You can put down the ruler.”
I stared. “This is your plan? Hide the evidence up here so that if Finn decides to sweep this investigation under the rug, you can move it forward despite her?”
He kept scribbling in the notebook. “Not hiding. Securing. And Finn knows I have this.”
“So if she wants it, you’ll hand it right over?”
He remained absorbed in his calculations.
“Right. Exactly what I suspected. And what about Keesha? She asked you to keep those files a secret.”
He looked up at that. “I have. And I will. But I can use them as a starting point.”
“For what?”
“For finding out who fired this bullet.”
“And you’re willing to break every rule to do that.”
He stood. “Not every rule.”
“Trey. Listen to me—”
“I am listening.” He put his hands on his hips. “However, you are hardly one to criticize. You kept Martinez’s phone, which you hacked. Then you downloaded all the data into your own personal computer.”
I pointed. “You mean that data you have up on the corkboard? The data I don’t recall giving you permission to access?”
He didn’t even blink. “You left it on my desk.”
“Near your desk. In my tote bag.”
A light shrug. “Your open tote bag. On my desk.”
“Barely touching your desk.”
“In my apartment.”
I crossed my arms. “So that’s how you’re going to play this?”
He crossed his too. “I assumed that since you told me the information was in there that I was free to access it. My apologies if that wasn’t the case.”
He was actually correct—I had intended that—but I wasn’t about to admit that now. I exhaled, felt the breath run right out of me in a slow trickle. And then I took another breath, one that filled not only my lungs but a dark contracted space deep inside. The space that held the thing I was really worried about.
“Trey? You do remember what happened the last time you got over-invested?”
He winced, and his voice softened. “I remember. And I’m sorry. I know how difficult that was for you.”
“You don’t need to apologize. But you do need to be aware.”
“I am. That’s the difference between now and last time. I know the warning signs now and how to ameliorate any…”
“Complications?”
“No. It starts with a D.”
“Decompensation.”
Trey nodded, crisply. “Yes. That. I don’t want to decompensate again. So I’m paying attention. And I have you to point out any warning signs I might miss.” He gave me a serious look. “Not that you’re responsible for maintaining my psychological stability. I’m responsible. Not you. That’s not what I meant. I simply meant…you know.”
I could feel the full force of his attention on me. It was one of his greatest tricks, this ability to envelope another person in his personal radar. In bed, it was positively intoxicating. But in other circumstances—say, an interrogation—it felt very much like being fried by a laser beam. He was doing the trick now. Everything around me was fading into the background, and I could feel his gaze, tactile.
“I know,” I said. “And you’re right, you do have me. One hundred percent.”
He looked profoundly relieved. “Thank you.”
He got back to work. While he continued his measurements, I examined his gathered evidence—Jessica’s murder was the central crux of his concern. He had constructed timelines for every person of interest, including himself. His timeline was black with red cross-hatches, each marked by an alphanumeric identifier linking it to a piece of information on one of the many maps, also color coded, though I had no idea what the various shades signified. But Trey did. That info was humming through his brain along with every other data point in front of him.
The photo he’d chosen to represent himself was the one I’d seen at the gym, an older one that I would have bet my last dollar had been taken around the time of the murder. Trey was nothing if not chronological. I peered closer at the intricate lines radiating and connecting.
“You got lucky back then,” I said. “Your dash cam and GPS alibied you for Jessica’s murder. And you got lucky now because I can alibi you for the shooting Friday night. But you know who doesn’t have an alibi for Friday?” I tapped another line, this one purple. “Addison.”
“She has no motive either.”
“We’ll see about that. I had a very interesting conversation with Portia that implied otherwise.”
“Portia? When did you talk to her?”
“She came to see me this afternoon. Waved an unloaded LeMat around, then tried to bribe me to hunt for next season’s script.”
Trey straightened. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. She implied that Addison’s interest in Nick involved both love and money. Also, she’s onto us. I’m not sure how quiet she’ll keep things, but I suspect we can count on her discretion if we play nice with her.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means…I don’t know what it means. Portia is the wildest of the wild cards.”
Trey nodded, thinking, thumb pressed against his
