Page 57 of Speak No Claim

“I saw you.”

“Did you?”

“Stop it!” I stomped my foot. “I’m serious, I know it was you.” My stomach tightened. “You’re really going to stand there and try to deny it?”

“I’ve barely said a word.”

“Exactly! You watched me!”

“You certainly seem convinced.”

“I am!”

“Then why ask me any questions at all?”

“Because I want you to admit it to me!”

“Do you?”

I checkmated him, calling his bluff. “Show me your hands.”

His expression remained neutral. “My hands?”

“Yes! Show them to me if it wasn’t you.”

“Hmm…” he slowly hummed in a desolate tone.

After a moment, he casually slid his hands out of the pockets of his hoodie. Palms up, he showed them to us.

My composure stammered, lost and puzzled more than I was.

Not one wound.

No blood.

No stitching.

Nothing.

I frowned, feeling utterly defeated.

Grinning, he asked, “Are you finished now?”

I didn’t say a word.

He placed his hands back into the pockets. “You look disappointed.”

“I know you’re hiding something.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“Doing what exactly?”

“This! All you do is bait me.”

“Hennessy,” Deja intervened. “I think you should just go home. It’s late, and you’re tired, and you’re not making any sense.”