Page 652 of Lessons in Cruelty

Jesus, I hate it when people call me ‘son’ like I’m fucking twelve.

I wrap my hands around the chain binding me to the table, pulling it taut. I haven’t wanted a cigarette this badly since the first day I quit. And, I mean, there’s been a ton of weird shit going down since then.

“I told you, I don’t⁠—“

Thatcher tips the envelope over, sending the contents sliding onto the table.

An evidence bag with a knife inside. The one I took from the Airbnb’s kitchen this morning.

Christ. Not this again.

Some photographs, but they all land face down.

“Remember this?” he asks, gesturing to the knife. Any other person would have said it sarcastically, maybe even with a hint of spiteful glee. Thatcher just sounds tired. “It was on your person when⁠—”

“Like I could forget,” I drawl, suppressing a laugh. “Officer Dipshit nearly tazed me when he found it.”

I swear there’s the hint of a smile on Thatcher’s mouth before it forms a stern line again. “Care to explain what you were doing with a concealed weapon on school property?”

I sigh, leaning forward again so I can pinch my eyes closed. I’d already told them when they were frisking me in the campus gardens, but I guess I have to repeat everything a hundred times for the sake of the tape recorder on the table between us.

“Exercising my Second Amendment rights,” I mutter.

“Those rights don’t extend to restricted spaces. You do understand it’s expressly prohibited to carry weapons of any kind on campus grounds?”

“It’s a kitchen knife, not a fucking machete.”

Thatcher sighs like I’m giving him a headache.

The feeling’s mutual.

There’s no way I’m telling him why I took that knife, because then I’d have to admit I was planning to confront my psychology professor convinced he might be fucking my girlfriend. Because Haven’s message was eating at me and I needed to do something about the acid in my veins.

Because I’m the kind of fuckup who makes bad decisions when he’s spiraling.

“Look, I didn’t touch Melissa, okay?” I pull against the cuffs. Futile. Stupid. “Call Haven. She’ll vouch for me.”

“Haven Lee.” He flips open a notebook. “Your girlfriend.”

“Yeah.”

“So you do know her.”

I groan, my forehead sinking onto the table’s cool surface. Of course he’d remember me being evasive as fuck after the Rain Dance, pretending not to know Haven.

I push up, taking a deep breath.

“Guess you can say we’ve become…reacquainted,” I say dryly.

I swear this hangover is turning me into Dickens.

“Remarkable,” he murmurs, studying his notes with a slight frown between his thick brows. “And this would be the same Haven Lee who left the scene moments after we detained you?”

The fluorescent lights hum overhead. The flickering one seems to pulse in time with my suddenly racing heart.

Thatcher looks up, tilting his head with a soft, almost paternal curve to his mouth. Like he fucking feels sorry for me.

“Multiple witnesses saw her leaving the scene. Why wouldn’t your girlfriend stick around to help you?”