Page 25 of Rival for Rent
“I’m not giving in,” I said, more defensively than I meant to.
“Not forever. Just until you’ve caught whoever’s behind this.”
“How am I supposed to do that if they fade into the woodwork again? Besides, I’m not letting them win. Whoever this is, they’re clearly a bigot. And I’m not going to let them harm queer youth like this.”
“Okay, okay. I was just asking.”
“Well, don’t,” I said. “Because it’s not an option. It’s not even entirely my call anyway. I’m the biggest donor to the center, but I’m not the only one. The Board of Directors would have to make that decision.”
“Sounds like it could be your decision if you stopped signing checks,” Mason said. “But okay, I’m not trying to argue that point.” His brow furrowed. “Did you tell the police about what happened last night?”
A hot flicker of embarrassment crawled up my chest. “They’re not going to say anything different. Last night was just like the other two times. It was crowded and busy and whoever did it got away without being seen. The cops won’t be able to do anything.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. I bet the theater has cameras in the lobby. We might get lucky. They might’ve captured something. And even if they didn’t, you need to tell them everything that might be relevant to the case.”
“Why do you care?” I burst out. “Honestly, Mason, why? You don’t owe me anything. You barely even know me. Why are you so invested in a problem that’s definitely not yours?”
“Because I’m not an asshole,” he yelled.
His words echoed in the space between us. I realized then that his hands were clenched into fists, like he was bracing for a fight. I didn’t respond. I just stared at him, still trying to understand what he was doing in my house. In my life. Twenty-four hours ago, we hadn’t seen each other in over a decade. But that felt like a lifetime ago now.
“At least, I’m trying not to be,” he added, his voice heavy as he flexed his fingers. “And whether you want me involved or not, I am. I’m not going to walk away while you’re still in danger. It’s not right.”
Which is how I wound up sitting in another goddamn interview room at the Second District Police Station on Idaho Avenue NW. I was recounting the previous night’s events to DetectiveMyers and Officer Branscombe—again. Myers was in his late fifties, built like a linebacker with a face that had seen too much. Branscombe was younger and still had that new-cop glint in her eyes. Her whole demeanor screamedidealism.
Myers asked the questions while Branscombe jotted down notes. Mason sat beside me, a looming figure crammed into a chair that looked like it might collapse under his weight. He hadn’t stopped frowning since we arrived.
“Anyway,” I said, winding down, “that’s about it. It wasn’t a deep cut. And like I said, it could have been an accident—”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Mason broke in, speaking for the first time. He reached across the table and picked up my tuxedo jacket. It was folded there between us, and he turned it over to show the tear. “This is what a knife does to fabric. If he’d fallen on something sharp, there’d be a puncture or fraying. This was clean. Intentional.”
“We’re aware of that,” Myers said evenly. “Just like we’re aware that your DNA is now all over the jacket. Not to mention any fingerprints you may have smudged by handling it.”
“Kai wore that in a crowded theater,” Mason said, unbothered. “It probably has thirty different people’s DNA on it. And I doubt there were any fingerprints in the first place. You didn’t find any on the notes, did you?”
“That doesn’t mean our guy couldn’t have gotten careless,” Myers replied.
“Mason was just trying to help,” I said. I surprised even myself with how fast I jumped to defend him. He didn’t need me to, but I still did it.
“So he said. And he was with you last night,” Myers continued, eyeing the both of us. “What exactly is the nature of your relationship?”
I flinched. I doubted Myers thought of himself as homophobic—he probably had less of a problem with my sexuality than Mason did. But would he have used that same tone if Mason were a woman? I doubted it.
I opened my mouth to say Mason was the bodyguard I’d hired, but he beat me to it.
“We’re friends,” he said. “We knew each other in high school.”
I stared at him. Why the hell was he lying? And why wasn’t he falling all over himself to clarify that there was nothing personal between us?
Myers caught the look on my face and laughed—not unkindly, but definitely amused. He’d misread the situation, but I didn’t bother correcting him.
“Alright,” he said, leaning back. “We appreciate you coming in again, Mr. Jacinto. Officer Branscombe will contact the theater about their CCTV. If we get any further information, we’ll let you know.”
“That’s it?” Mason said. “You just take his statement and let him go? Someone tried to kill him last night.”
“Mason…” I put a hand on his arm, but he shrugged me off.
“I’m serious,” he said. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his glare locked on both officers. “Why aren’t you doing more?”
