“Drop it!” a voice barked.

The flashlight swung out of my face and I saw Chief Bruyn. The younger officer stood behind him.

“Hands up,” Bruyn said.

They already were, but I hoisted them higher, palms out. My fingers had stopped sparking.

“She had something,” Bruyn said to his officer. “Find it, then take her out to the car.”

“I had my phone,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I dropped it when you startled me. I was dialing 911. It’s Michael Kennedy. He ... he fell. From up there.” I pointed. “He’s dead.”

The officer patted me down as I spoke. Bruyn checked Michael, then called the sheriff’s department and doctor, then phoned the other officer, telling him to get over there. When he hung up, he walked back to Michael.

“He called me here,” I said. “I found him.”

“Sit her down over there,” Bruyn said, pointing. “And stand guard.”

“Stand guard? You think I killed—?”

I didn’t finish. Stupid question. I’d been found over a dead body.

“Michael sent me a text. It’s still on my phone.” I pointed to it on the ground. “Just check—”

“Get her away from here,” Bruyn said.

“You want her in the cruiser?”

“No, just over there.” He pointed. “In case the doc has questions.”

The other officer arrived, then the doctor. He didn’t ask me anything. I don’t think he even knew I was there. Having me sitting twenty feet away as they discussed the case wasn’t exactly smart policing. After the doctor left, Bruyn seemed to figure that out, and had the young officer take me to the cruiser as the sheriff’s department arrived.

“Someone called 911 before me, didn’t they?” I said to Bruyn as I left. “Reported a disturbance? Just in time for you to find me with the body.”

He said nothing, but I could tell by his expression that I was right.

“That would be your killer,” I said. “He saw me arrive and is probably out there, right now, watching us.”

“There’s no one else for a mile.”

“We’re on a street with a bunch of empty buildings. Any one of those would be the perfect place—”

“We didn’t see anything.”

“Do you think the killer parked his car out front and left the lights on?”

He glared and swung open the back door of a king cab pickup marked “Columbus Police Dept.”

With a roar of tires and cloud of dust, another pickup swung into the lot. Jesse jammed it into park so fast the brakes hiccupped.

“Is she okay?” he called, running over as the officer prodded me into the back.

“I’m fine,” I said. “The prime suspect, it seems, but otherwise fine.”

“Suspect?” He wheeled on the cop. “Are you serious? She called it in.”

“No, someone else beat me to it,” I said.

“This is stupid. She got a text—”

I held up my hand as I climbed in. “It’s okay. I’ll answer their questions and we’ll get this straightened out.”

The officer tried to shut the door, but it wouldn’t budge. He glared down at my feet—which were well within the cab confines—then at Jesse, who stood three feet away. He tried again. The door wouldn’t shut, held by Jesse’s telekinetic powers.

“Do you want me to call anyone?” Jesse asked.

“Not yet. I should be able to sort this out on my own.”

He nodded. “That’s what I thought you’d say. I’m here now, I can help, and if we need Lucas, he’s only a call away.”

“That’s enough,” the officer said.

He gave the door a sharp wrench and Jesse’s telekinetic control over it snapped as it slammed shut. Jesse stood there, watching me, looking anxious.

“I’m okay,” I mouthed.

He headed into the warehouse. The officer shouted at him to stay out of there. Jesse ignored him. The cop glanced from me to Jesse, and decided to remain at his post. A few minutes later, Jesse came out, escorted by the older cop.

“Look, just talk to her,” I heard Jesse saying. “She was here because she was lured here. Set up.”

I didn’t catch the officer’s answer, but Jesse’s face darkened. He said something back, too low to hear. The cop stiffened, then pointed to Jesse’s truck.

“Fucking rednecks,” Jesse called back as he stormed off.

The cop’s flashlight went flying. A parting shot from Jesse. As the Deputy chased after it, Jesse mouthed “I’ll fix this” to me. Then he climbed in his truck and peeled out.

It got very, very quiet then, left alone with a silent cop standing guard.

Michael was dead.

The guy I’d just gone out to dinner with. Just laughed with. Talked with. Kissed and thought “this could be something.”

I kept seeing him. Hearing his voice. Smelling the faint scent of his cologne. Then smelling blood, jerking out of the daydream, shivering, eyes prickling. I didn’t cry. I don’t cry. I wished I could. But all I could do was keep playing those memory loops. Michael alive. Michael dead.

The chief finally came out. He didn’t say a word to me, just motioned for the officer guarding me to follow. Leaving the other cop guarding the scene, he got into his car. We followed him back to the station.

twenty-two

The officer took me through a narrow door beside the front desk that led into a makeshift cell. I dug in my heels, about to say I wasn’t going in there without being charged. Then I saw Bruyn was already inside, seated at a table. An interrogation room, apparently.

Still, I hesitated at the door. “I’ll come in here to talk to you, but you’re not locking that door without laying a charge.”

“Oh, I expect to lay a charge, Ms. Levine.”

Bullshit. The only way he was doing that is if I confessed. I sat. No one Miranda-ized me, which could mean Bruyn considered this just an interview. Otherwise, I’d be at the sheriff’s office, not here.

Still, if there’s one bit of legal advice Lucas drilled into my head growing up, it’s this: If held by the police, for any reason, lawyer up. Don’t say a word without him there.

I’d always rolled my eyes, wondering how stupid Lucas thought I was. I sure as hell wasn’t going to be one of those morons you see on crime shows who waives her rights straight into self-incrimination. You have the right to a lawyer, so get one, especially if he is also one of your best friends.