Page 91 of Dream a Little Dream

“Murder,” Mel said with a cackle.

Aaron arched an eyebrow. Mel’s laughter faltered, but a sharp knock at the door, loud and insistent, stunned her into complete silence.

“Fuck! Whose shit you been stealing now?”

Aaron tossed the textbook at her and clambered up to answer the door.

Two uniformed police officers stood behind it, expressions hard and unreadable. “Aaron Jones?”

“Yeah?”

“We’d like you to accompany us to the station,” one said, voice devoid of emotion. Bit like him. “We have a few questions to ask.”

“About what?”

“It will be better if you come with us. We can explain everything at the station.”

Aaron glanced over his shoulder at Mel, and she stared at him wide-eyed, vape dangling from her fingers. A chill settled in his chest as he turned back to the officers. A chill he didn’t like. One that told him this was the proof of why he should have kept his damn mouth shut. And why he was consistently told not to tell anyone who he was. Because as soon as they found out—

“Do I need a solicitor?”

“You can ask when you’re there.”

Well, fuck.

With a sigh, he grabbed his hoodie from the back of his desk chair, wriggling into it, then snatched his phone from the nightstand.

“Shall I tell anyone?” Mel said, scurrying to the end of his bed.

“Who?”

Mel gave him a sympathetic smile. She knew there were no parents for him to turn to. If he had any forethought, he’d tell Kenny. But he neither had his number, nor was he sure that this little impromptu visit wasn’tbecauseof Kenny. He’d been naïve to think he could run from it. Be protected from it. That’s why his decision to come back to Ryston wasn’t completely ridiculous. Wherever he’d go, his parents’ legacy would followhim around like those phantoms in the night Mel wanted to worship.

He followed the officers down his corridor and on the sly, texted Jervine:Being questioned. Ryston.Because, for her, that would be a problemshehad to solve. As she had done each time before when he’d found himself hauled into another police interview, either for his own doing or someone else’s.

Aaron sat in the back of the police car, silent and tense, mind racing. He watched the town blur past, everyone else enjoying their weekend of chores and family fun, whereas he headed for Ryston Police Headquarters with the only potential reasoning being that they were linking him to Rahul’s death. Because he hadn’t touched Archie enough to be frogmarched in like this.

Once at the station, he was led through the sterile corridors, the buzz of fluorescent lights above like an interrogation spotlight. He hated this. Hated the way the people here looked at him. Hated how they treated him. Like he was already guilty of something. Police had questioned him a lot in his time. Petty crime as a teen had him hauled inside places like this more often than he cared to admit. And he always approached it with the same indifference. The way he approached the men who tried it on with him in Inferno. As if he wereuntouchable.

Because he sort of was.

But not to Dr Kenneth Lyons.

By the time they brought him into the interview room, he’d shed his unease because the room was claustrophobic. Like a small cupboard might be. Bare walls, a metal table bolted to the floor, and two chairs. It stank of stale coffee and disinfectant, and he sat, arms crossed, legs splayed out in defiance, waiting for the inevitable barrage of questions. He didn’t trust the police. Never had. And nothing about this felt like anything other than a setup.

The door creaked open, and in walked DI Jack Bentley.

“Hi, I’m PC Bentley. You can call me Jack.”

He sat across from Aaron, settling into the chair with a deliberate calmness that pissed Aaron off. He then placed a folder on the table, face unreadable.

“Aaron.” Bentley’s tone was level, but it carried an undercurrent of authority. Gone was the fresh-faced police constable who’d held his hand and taken him out of his cupboard. Aaron wondered if he knew that yet. “We appreciate you coming in voluntarily.”

“Didn’t feel all that voluntary to me.”

Bentley ignored the jab, flipping open the folder, skimming his fingers over the notes before he looked up. “We’re here to talk about Rahul Mishra.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

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