Page 21 of Thicker Than Water
I grope for my shirt on the floor, livid with myself for fucking up this visit. When I’m clothed again—from the waist up, at least—I swivel toward him. “Wyatt.”
“Sienna.”
He gulps from a glass of water by his bed, then holds it out to me in offering. He always used to get us beers after sex, whatever new IPA he was obsessed with—usually from a brewery we’d recently toured—but ever since we started these meaningless hookups, he’s been respectful of the fact that I don’t like to linger.
“No—thanks,” I say, declining the water. “What do you know about the case?”
He sets the glass back down, then sighs as he crosses his arms,forcing his gaze away from me, toward the bathroom door. “I can’t talk about that.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” I promise. “Except Julia, obviously, but—please. Can you at least tell me who the other suspects are?”
Wyatt tents his knees beneath the sheets. “Listen,” he says, “forget I’m on the Hillstead PD. I’m just me. You can talk to me about Jason. How’s he doing? How areyoudoing?”
He rubs my back the way I like, thumbing circles beneath my shoulder blades, but I hold myself stiff. I cannot, will not, sink so swiftly back into the comfort of his touch.
“I’ll be a lot better,” I say, “as soon as I know this nonsense with Gavin is tied up. Because it’s a lot—having no idea when Jason’s going to wake up, and on top of that, I’ve got Lou acting like it’s life or death that we know every single step Jason took on Friday night.”
“Who’s Lou?”
“Our lawyer. He seems all concerned that there’s a few hours missing from Jason’s ‘timeline’?”—exaggerated, sarcastic air quotes—“and Julia seems all nervous, too, and it would be great if I could put her mind at ease by telling her that Jason isnotthe only suspect in this case.”
Wyatt pulls his hand from my back, his eyes probing my face. Finally, he exhales, resistance hissing out of him like air from a tire.
“Theyhavelooked into other people,” he says.
My stomach fizzes. “Great! Like who—other Integrity Plus people?”
Wyatt hesitates. “I really shouldn’t talk to you about this.” He pinches his lips together, reminding me of Julia.
“Wyatt, please.”
I hear the pleading in my voice, the secondpleaseI’ve uttered in minutes, and swallow back a surge of self-hatred. I’m not supposed to need him. That’s the rule I set for myself, the way I justifyresponding to his texts, initiating messages of my own. I can scratch an itch with him, I can punish him by offering my body while withholding my heart, but I can’t be vulnerable. Can’t relinquish my sense of control.
It’s working on him, though—my sticky, acidic need. I see it dissolving his remaining reluctance.
“There was someone they looked into right after the body was discovered. Did Jason tell you about the guy who accosted Gavin, about a week before the murder?”
I straighten and shift on the bed. “Accosted him where? At work?”
“No. At a restaurant where Gavin was eating.” Wyatt tilts his head in confusion. “Jason didn’t mention it?”
My grunt is hoarse with annoyance. “Wyatt, no. Jason doesn’t talk to me about Gavin. Beyond being the guy who signs his paychecks, he’s not an important part of Jason’s life—which is why the idea of himkillinghim is so absurd in the first place! So keep going: What happened at the restaurant?”
Wyatt watches me a moment, eyes conflicted, before blowing out a breath. “The guy had some kind of beef against Gavin, saw him there while he was a few drinks deep at the bar, and began shouting at him. A server called the station, and he was still causing a scene by the time the officers showed up. They arrested him on drunk and disorderly.”
“That’s—perfect. Someone with a motive, a recent incident of abuse against him.”
“I wouldn’t call it abuse,” Wyatt says. “The guy was just a mess. His life imploded recently; his wife left him—”
“Left him for Gavin? Is that why the guy wanted to attack him?”
“No, no—it was nothing like that. It sounded more… financially motivated. And I think he just saw Gavin there that night and jumped at the chance to express his anger.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re being pretty sympathetic toward someone who got arrested.”
Wyatt shrugs, but it’s not a casual movement. The gesture is heavy, like it takes some effort to hike up his shoulders. “Alcohol makes people do crazy things. Things they’d never dream of doing otherwise.”
He’s talking about himself. The party. The woman. “Or it just brings out something that’s already there,” I say, my tone appropriately thorny. But I need to skip past this, can’t let this potential lead get lost in the rubble of us. “So who was the guy?”
