Page 12 of Thicker Than Water
“Come on—” Sienna calls, but she’s cut off by her phone, ringing in her purse.
Our eyes snap toward each other, blaring the same thought—the hospital!—but when she launches for the phone and reads it, the hope slumps out of her. In a moment, her cheeks are stained with a familiar pink.
I crane my neck to see the screen: Wyatt.
Sienna declines the call. I know she doesn’t let herself speak to him; she hasn’t budged an inch on that self-imposed rule since their breakup. But maybe Wyatt could be an inside source for us on the investigation, a luxury that most families of suspects—I blanch at the reminder that Jason’s a suspect—probably don’t get.
“What if he had news about Jason?” I ask. “About the… evidence.”
“You heard Beck. He’s off the case. He’s probably just using this as an opportunity to—I don’t know—worm his way back into my life.”
Sienna crosses her arms, holding herself rigid. She’s trying to appear unfazed, but the flush in her skin tells me otherwise.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “I know it was probably hard. Seeing Wyatt after all this time.”
A muscle jumps in her jaw, but before she can answer, her phone rings again.
“Jesus,” she says. “Twice in a row?”
“He might know something,” I say. “I think you should pick up.”
She unfolds her arms, then cups her phone, head tilting from side to side as she wavers over the decision. Finally, she groans, stabbing at the screen.
“You’re on speaker,” she says. “Julia’s right here.”
It’s an odd, cut-to-the-chase greeting. But then again, any exchange with Wyatt probably feels too long for Sienna.
“Oh. Hey,” Wyatt says.
“Do you know something?” she asks. “Did the blood come back on the knife?”
“Uh, no. That’ll probably be a few days. I just— I wanted to tell you something, before I left the hospital, but Beck had me on a short leash after warning you about the evidence.”
“Okay, well, what? Why are you calling?”
There’s a hiss of static as Wyatt blows out a breath. “I think you should get a lawyer.”
Chapter FourSIENNA
On Thursday morning, Gavin Reed is everywhere.
In posts on the NextDoor app:Be careful everyone. That stitched-up mouth? That screams serial killer to me. I wouldn’t be surprised if—
On the TV in the hospital lobby:Police say they’re continuing to follow leads, and while they don’t believe Reed’s killer poses a threat to the public, they’re cautioning—
On the lips of people in the cafeteria:The woman who does my hair? Her father-in-law lives on the victim’s street, and he said he’s seen someone skulking around at night and I just know it’s—
But inside Jason’s room, Julia and I haven’t mentioned Gavin’s name. We’ve been too busy watching the nurses, beaming them hopeful looks whenever they check on Jason, then deflating when they note no changes in his condition. We’ve also been pecking at our laptops, fielding messages from clients we’ve ignored over the past couple days. In between, I’ve been on my phone, waiting for it to glow with one specific call—and fuming over Clive’s Instagram.
Early this morning, he posted a picture where he’s crouched beside his toddler daughter, his back to the camera, pointing at the sunrise like his kid couldn’t find the sky without him.Light of my life, he captioned it, and as I scan it again now, I feel the sun in every part of my body, a nuclear fusion setting me on fire. How dare he enjoy one moment with his daughter when my parents can’t enjoy any with theirs. How dare he have any light at all, other than the kind in prison cells.
I picture him in a space like that, dim and desolate, and try to relish the image—but too quickly, it gets away from me, morphing to a moment from my freshman year of high school. Clive’s voice in the dark. A postered wall. My pulse thumping, first to some distant music, next to some internal alarm. Then Jason, out of nowhere—
“What are you doing?” Julia asks, cutting the memory short.
My thumb hovers above Clive’s head like a laser sight on a gun. I point the screen toward Julia, showing her the photo for the second time today.
“Nope,” she says. “Back to work.”
