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I don’t want this stupid pretense to be over even though it’s null and void. I don’t want to face a life without her.
Because I love her.
And she doesn’t have a clue, not after I barked shit in her face and ripped her apart.
Maybe that’s why this doesn’t feel like a win, but more like a chore that’s finally done.
I slump against the wall and close my eyes, my thoughts fading.
As soon as I’m done bleeding, I need to talk to her.
I need to tell Junie everything before it’s too late.
27
BITTERSWEET TEARS (JUNIPER)
The first hint I have that there’s something terribly wrong is when two police officers show up at Nana’s door.
Two of them in matching uniforms, both wearing identical expressions of polite concern. Nana invites them in and plies them with cake as they explain they need to ask me some very important questions about my involvement with Forrest Haute.
It’s been two days since I came back here crying like a stray cat.
To say I’m over it is pure exaggeration, but at least I’m not bawling my eyes out uncontrollably anymore.
“Sure,” I tell them, wondering if I’m a suspect myself. After all, I was there in the laundromat, clearly sleuthing and potentially incriminating myself. Haute’s dirty number notes were stuffed inmycupcakes.
Dexter made the risks clear, even if he never said anything about winding up on the police’s radar.
But thinking about him makes my heart squeeze, so I focus on my expression.
That’s something I’ve been practicing. The dead smile where I crinkle the corners of my eyes to make it look real.
“Do you need me to come down to the station?” I ask.
The older officer, a lady with dark hair who introduced herself as Detective Gillian Batista, gives me a brief smile. She’s all hard edges and scares me a little, but I decide I like her.
“We can talk to you here,” she says. “You’re not under arrest or anything.”
“Oh. Oh, thank God.” The relief is palpable. I link my fingers together as Nana drops off more coffee.
“We’ve already spoken to Dexter Rory about the case and your involvement,” Detective Batista continues, “so this is more of a formality. We need as much information as possible to build a case.”
They’ve already talked to Dex.
Of course they have.
I tighten my fingers so they don’t shake. I saw the headline last night when it popped up in my local news feed.
Big headlines about a major real estate mogul and developer getting busted. All thanks to Dexter Rory.
No mention of the Sugar Bowl.
No mention of me.
“You’ve spoken to him,” I repeat. “And how is he?”
The article said he was hurt in a confrontation with Haute, but I called the hospital only to find out he was discharged. I don’t know anything else and it’s driving me insane.
