You know you don’t like him. You never liked him. You can’t start liking him now!
“It has changed,” I argued. “I mean, I’m doing well now. Really.”
He eyed me. “Are you?”
“Yes, I am. I like living alone. I can’t get along with anyone anyway. Except my cat. So, yeah. I’m doing well. Really, really well.”
“If that’s so, then why do you look like you’re on the verge of tears?”
“Shut up. I am not.” My voice wavered.
Why? Why! Stupid things never ceased to plague my life—stupid people, stupid men. Someday I would find someone normal, and then I could show Brent I was telling the truth.
“You know,” Brent said, crossing his arms, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. Maybe we should find somewhere a little more open?”
“Sure, somewhere without recently murdered bodies would be nice.”
He walked closer to me, close enough to wrap his arm around my shoulder if he wanted to. Thankfully, he didn’t.
We made our way to the French village, where Brent bought two éclairs. A few rough-hewn tables and benches sat under a grove of broad-branched oak trees, and we found a quiet spot near the back. Overhead, the afternoon sun was turning orange as it sank slowly toward the horizon.
I felt raw and empty, and even the temptation of chocolate didn’t seem to appease the gnawing inside me.
Brent eyed me as I pushed the pastry away.
“Something’s not right, Olive. I can tell.”
You think?
“Is it about the investigation? I’m not trying to make things worse, but you should know there are some who are pretty serious about bringing you in for questioning and possibly detaining you. I thought you should be aware before someone besides me tells you. Just be prepared.”
“Detaining me? What, exactly, does that mean?”
“More questioning, most likely. I wouldn’t worry too much about it. I’ll vouch for you, and that carries a little weight—not much, mind you, but enough to keep them off your back for now.”
I already knew they suspected me. I only hoped Brent could stall them long enough for us to find the real killer. I stared across the thoroughfare at the forest standing behind the tall wooden fence. The trees seemed dark and hidden in shadow despite the sunlight. Was there something out there? Had it attacked Kull? Had it killed Mr. Duncan?
Was it able to take human form?
The police would never find it. They were looking for a human suspect, someone with motive and a shaky alibi, when the real killer could easily be someone—or something—they’d never suspect.
I didn’t have any answers, and for now, I knew of only one way to get them.
“We need to question Jordan,” I said.
“We?”
“Yes, I need to speak with him.”
“You know I can’t let you do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is an ongoing investigation, and you’re still a suspect. So is he. I can’t legally allow you to interact with him.”
“Legally? I’ve never heard of such a law.”
“City of Houston Legal Code 15b, Section 7. Look it up.”
I crossed my arms. “Legal code? Now you’re spouting legal code at me? Brent, you know there is some strange stuff going on. Mr. Duncan was wrapped in thorns and his eyes were cut out—there’s definitely some magical rituals going on. How much do you know about magic?”
“You’ve got a point, but still—I have laws to keep.”
Brent had always been a stickler about order and rules. Maybe I could use that to my advantage.
“Look, Jordan is my patient. Isn’t there some law that would allow me to speak with him? I could be a professional consultant or something.”
Brent seemed to consider my suggestion as he stared at the darkening forest. “I could probably work something out.”
I smiled. It felt good to smile. I was pretty sure it was my first genuine smile all day. “Thank you,” I said.
He shrugged. “Don’t thank me. Harris County is broke, and since you’re willing to work without compensation—”
“Not true. I want a trench coat.”
“Almost for free,” he clarified. “Anyway, we should probably go. I have a feeling that questioning this guy is going to take a while.”
Chapter 8
We approached the front gates and entered the same room Brent had questioned me in—except now a man wearing no shirt, heavy eyeliner, and spiked black hair sat behind the table.
Jordan glared as we entered.
“What’s she doing here?” he said to Brent.
“She’s a consultant. Don’t argue.”
Jordan crossed his arms. “This is ridiculous. I’ve got a gig in half an hour. I’ve already lost a ton of money because of the shutdown, and now this?”
Brent held out a chair for me, and I eyed it. He’d never been gentlemanly when we’d dated, but I sat without arguing, and Brent sat beside me.
“If you’ll cooperate,” Brent said, “then you can be out of here in time for your performance. What is it you do here, exactly?”
He shrugged. “Whatever makes people happy. I’ve shoved tacks up my nose, swallowed knives, shocked myself. I’ve eaten weird things—live wasps and snakes and such.” He held out his arm where a row of scars lined his wrists. “I brand myself every now and then—that really keeps them coming. Basically, I just show up with my shirt off, and people pay me.” He winked at me.
Someone restrain me, please. Jordan’s pasty whiteness and potbelly were going to make me swoon. For real.
Brent gave Jordan the rundown on privacy laws and the option of asking for a lawyer, though I knew Jordan would never ask for a lawyer.
“I don’t need a lawyer,” Jordan said.
Yep. There was a reason I’d diagnosed him as a narcissist.
“Then we’ll get started,” Brent said. “We need to know where you were last night between the hours of nine PM and six AM.”
“I was back in my trailer.”
“Was anyone with you?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure. People come and go all the time. Could’ve been a lot of people, but I was passed out most of the time.”
Brent narrowed his eyes. “Passed out?”
“Yeah, passed-out
