Page 4 of Sugar Free (Sugar Bowl 3)

Caroline stops in midstep, but rather than freeze to inaction, she turns to grab my elbow and pulls me three steps into the foyer so we are almost toe-to-toe with Beck as he closes the door and engages the lock.

"What's wrong?" she whispers so Ally doesn't hear us.

Beck's tired eyes pass over Caroline briefly, but then slide to me where they shimmer with frustration. "The police are at JT's house. They've found him."

"But how--" I start to say, because how in the fuck was he found so fast?

Beck ignores me, turning to Caroline. "Get Ally and get out of here now. I expect the police will come to pay me a visit. Could be tomorrow, could be in five minutes, so get out of here now."

"But--" Caroline says in astonishment.

"Get the fuck out of here now," Beck whispers harshly but still so low that Ally is oblivious to us. "I want you far away from here when they show up. I don't want you becoming a potential witness to anything associated with JT."

"What's that mean?" I ask, stepping into him and putting a hand on his chest.

His gaze comes back to me. "By virtue of my long relationship with him, I'm going to be a potential suspect. They're going to come and talk to me. I don't want Caroline involved."

I spin toward her and give a quick jerk of my head toward the living room. "He's right. Get Ally and get going."

Caroline's no fool. She doesn't spare us even a second more before turning away and hurrying into the living room. I hear her say, "Come on, honey. Let's get your shoes on and head home. It's getting late."

"I don't suppose I could talk you into packing a bag and heading to your dad's?" Beck says softly, and I turn back to look at him with raised eyebrows. He doesn't look apologetic over his suggestion. "We'll say you went there right after school to spend a few days with him. Your dad would cover."

I shake my head almost violently and practically growl at him. "Don't even fucking think about trying to shield me from this, Beck. If they come, then I'll be here by your side, and if they even think you had anything to do with this, I'm telling them every goddamn thing that happened."

I expect him to argue.

I expect him to be angry at me, because I know he's in full-blown protective mode.

I expect--at the very least--for him to look annoyed at me, because after the mess I've created, he deserves to at least look a bit put out.

Instead, he snatches me to him so roughly my head snaps, but then I'm engulfed in his arms, which wrap around me tight. He squeezes me hard and his voice is desperate. "We'll get through this. I swear we will."

I nod against him, not because I believe what he's saying, but because he needs to believe that I trust in him right now.

The sad truth, however, is that I think that both of us are getting ready to fall down the rabbit hole and there's not going to be any way out for us.

The knock on the door comes sooner than I expected, and only a little over an hour since Caroline and Ally left. I've been lying on the couch spooning with Sela, waiting for the other shoe to drop when they show up. The TV's been on, but neither one of us is absorbing. My hand is idly stroking her hip, wanting nothing more than to carry her into bed and for us to pretend none of this happened.

That means I could strip her down, eat her out, fuck her hard. All of the stuff that's been so damn good and that I've taken completely for granted.

But instead, Sela gives a quavering sigh when she hears the confident knock and we both push up and off the couch. Our eyes meet briefly and we both take a deep breath.

"Just do as we discussed earlier and it will be okay," I whisper.

She nods, her face pale but her gaze determined.

I turn away from her, square my shoulders, and head toward the foyer. I hear the creak of leather as Sela lies back down on the couch, presenting the picture of lazy Monday evening happiness of just vegging out in front of the TV and streaming some mindless comedy we found on Netflix.

I present the same, and it was done intentionally. I'd put on a pair of sweatpants, a ratty T-shirt, and my hair was flattened on one side from resting against the pillow on the couch. I hoped to look like a guy who wasn't just a few hours ago getting ready to wipe down a murder scene and potentially sink a body deep into Richardson Bay.

Putting my eye to the peephole, I need to determine who would be sent to my house.

Uniformed cops or plainclothes.

I see a white, middle-aged man and a black woman probably in her late twenties. Both in dress pants and shirts without jackets, the man sporting a loosely knotted tie. Both are clearly detectives; I know this not because I can see their badges, but by the somber yet superior looks on their faces. Still, I school my features and try not to look overly surprised when I open the door.

Had they been uniformed cops, my eyes would be wide with concern.

But I think the best tactic at this point is to feign ignorance because for all I know, they could be Amway salesmen.

I look at them expectantly as I swing the door open, but add a tinge of annoyance to my voice. "Can I help you?"

The male cop, who has dark receding hair and a slight belly, pulls a badge I now see firmly clasped to his belt and holds it up to me. "Mr. North...I'm Detective Paul DeLatemer with the Sausalito PD."

My gaze lands hard on the badge he holds up and then I pinch my eyebrows inward. A pained expression takes over my face. I go on the offense and blurt out, "Something's happened to JT, hasn't it?"

This throws the cop off, as I'd hoped, and he turns to look at his partner, who shoots him a look of wary surprise before she turns to me. She also holds up a badge and says, "I'm Detective Amber Denning and yes...something's happened. May we come in?"

I appear stunned for a moment, and then remember my manners, my voice sounding high pitched as I step back and wave them hurriedly in the door. "Yes, I'm sorry...please come in."

They step into the foyer and I close the door behind them.

"Sela," I call out, letting a touch of fear coat my words as I turn toward the living room. She pops up from the couch, as we'd discussed, and looks confused for a moment to see the detectives standing there. It's an amazing piece of acting if I do say so myself.

Her throat is covered by a lightweight turtleneck she put on, because if we were going through with this whole charade of denial to the police, then they couldn't see the bruises on her throat. Sure, they could have been from a fall or even a sex choking game that got out of hand, but it was best for there not to be any notice or questions about it. Doesn't mean I didn't take pictures with my cellphone though, which I downloaded into an encrypted file on my computer. Just in case we needed the proof later.

Sela's worried gaze flies to mine and I croak, "They're here about JT."

"Oh no," she whispers, hand flying to her mouth to cover it.

She looks so worried for the man who raped her, I almost burst into a spontaneous round of applause. I hold my hand out to her, and she scurries toward me in a move of solidarity and support. My arm goes around her waist and we both turn to face the detective with worried expectation.

Both of them look at us in empathy for the impending bad news they're going to deliver, but I don't have a doubt in the world they're scrutinizing every word out of our mouth and every bit of body language we're conveying.

"Can we sit down?" Detective Denning says. Her voice is crisp and forged with authority. She may be young, but I can tell she's a professional when it comes to awkward situations.

"Of course," I say as I gesture to the dining room table.

Denning takes the end chair, which I find to be a subtle indication that she's the partner in charge, despite being the younger of the two and a minority as a black female. DeLatemer takes the seat to her right, on the far side of the table, while Sela and I sit to her left.

I scrub my hands over my face, back through my hair, and then huff out a sigh filled with regret and fear as I pin a direct look at Detective Denning. "How bad is he?"

&

nbsp; "Excuse me?" she responds.

"JT," I say with a touch of frustration. "How bad did they beat him up this time?"

I don't need any heightened sense of awareness to know I've shocked the cops sitting at my dining room table, and I can tell that the direction of their early investigation may have just gotten a little more interesting at this tidbit. Sela and I had a quick but unanimous decision on how we were going to handle the cops when they showed up.

We could either wait for the bad news to be delivered and hope our manufactured reactions of grief for a dearly departed friend and business colleague would be genuine enough to fool them, or we could go on the offensive and lace enough truth into the story that it would throw the scent off of us.

"Mr. North," Detective DeLatemer says from across the table in a gentle voice. My eyes slide over to him and I stare at him with a look of dread because I can hear it in his tone that he's getting ready to drop a bomb on two poor unsuspecting people. "Your partner, Jonathon Townsend...I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but he's dead."

Sela lets out a gasp of horror and her hand comes to my shoulder to grip me in comfort. I make a choking sound and slump down in my chair where I mutter, "No...they wouldn't have killed him..."

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