Page 38 of Darkwater Lane

The detective reads a phone number off a page in his little notebook. It’s Sam’s.

Sam remains silent. I notice, then, how rigidly he’s holding himself. My dread starts morphing into panic.

I’m missing something, but I don’t know what it is. I give a nearly imperceptible tug on Sam’s hand, urging him to look at me and give me some sort of indication of what the hell is going on. Some reassurance. He doesn’t meet my eyes. My heart trips, thumping hard against my ribs.

“The victim still had his phone on him, and forensics was able to use his biometrics to unlock it,” Gutierrez continues. “We were able to gain access to his last several text messages. Are you aware that you were the last person in contact with the victim?” he asks Sam.

My breath catches in my throat, and sweat begins beading along the back of my neck despite the chill in the air. It’s everything I can do to keep the surprise from showing on my face. Other than the call several weeks ago, Sam hasn’t mentioned having any communication with Varrus.

“The last text he received was from your number about an hour ago,” he says, nodding at Sam. He holds up his notepad so he can recite the words verbatim. “You wrote, ‘If you come anywhere near me or my family, I will fucking gut you, understand?’”

The words land like a bomb. Sam’s eyes flutter shut for the briefest moment before he draws a deep breath and opens them again. His expression shifts, hardens. His entire demeanor morphs into what I mentally refer to as Soldier Mode. It’s how I imagine he looked out on the battlefield when his entire being was focused on defending himself and those he loved.

I’ve seen it before. Like when someone gunned us down in the cabin he was renting in Stillhouse Lake. Or when another cabin we were searching in the Georgia mountains caught on fire and exploded.

It’s confirmation of how serious this situation has become.

A thousand questions spiral through my head. I want to grab Sam’s arm and haul him somewhere private, where I can drill him with questions. But that’s not an option.

This is all happening way too fast, and I’m having difficulty wrapping my mind around what’s going on. I’ll take time later to sift through everything I’ve just heard. Now is the time to present a united front.

If there’s one thing I know, it’s that Sam didn’t do this. Even if he had the means, motive, and opportunity, he wouldn’t have killed Varrus—not in this manner. He never would have brought that kind of violence and death into our home—our living room, where we spend time together as a family.

“Sam didn’t do this,” I tell the detective.

He shifts his attention back to me. “Can you tell me your whereabouts earlier this evening?”

I cringe. He’s seen the camera footage. He knows I left the house. “I was meeting someone at a hotel bar near the airport. The rideshare driver can confirm picking me up and dropping me off. There were probably half a dozen people who saw me waiting at the bar. Plus, there’s the person I was meeting.” I give the detective Madison’s contact information. I don’t bother pointing out that she’s probably still here, one of the many onlookers in the growing crowd behind us. I don’t feel like dragging her into this situation more than she already is.

“And you, Mr. Cade? Can you account for your whereabouts after you left the house earlier this evening?”

Sam glances my way, and our eyes meet. I know immediately from his expression that he can’t. At least not in any verifiable way. I have no idea where he went or what he was doing.

The dread that’s been pooling in my gut continues to rise. I feel like we’re caught in some sort of trap, and it’s growing tighter and tighter around us.

When Sam says nothing, Gutierrez tries again. “Look, this will go much better for you if you start talking. The more difficult you make things…”

Sam shakes his head. “I’m not going to answer any more of your questions. Not without a lawyer.”

My stomach drops. It’s a smart move, but it also confirms my fears.

It clearly confirms Gutierrez’s suspicions as well. The detective sighs. “I understand. I’m not going to ask you any more questions. But let me explain to you how this looks. A man you’ve admitted to having issues with was murdered in your home within minutes of you physically threatening him. Not only can you not account for your whereabouts, but your alarm system shows that you disarmed the system and ensured the security cameras were nonoperational during the time period when the victim was murdered.”

Sam’s face is pale, but his expression is resolute. He says nothing.

The detective looks at him for a beat longer and then lets out another sigh. “So be it.” He gestures to the cop who’s been hovering nearby. He jumps into action, slipping his handcuffs off his belt as he approaches.

I know what’s coming, and I want to step between them and stop it from happening. This entire situation has spun out of control. It’s like Stillhouse Lake all over again, when the Norton police came for Sam, accusing him of murdering Varrus before.

Except back then Varrus hadn’t been dead. He’d only been setting Sam up.

Then who’s setting Sam up now? And why?

I think about the missing minutes on the camera footage and remember Rowan’s background in hacking. I remember the suspicion I felt earlier at the gas station when I realized that Madison was the reason I’d left the house in the first place.

“Wait,” I tell the detective. “Rowan Applegate. She’s also a LostAngel. Sam’s sister Callie—the one Melvin murdered—was Rowan’s adopted sister. Rowan blames me. She’s been involved inThe Royal Murderspodcast with Madison Westcott, and she’s a hacker. She could have been responsible for whatever happened to our alarm system. And Madison was the woman I was meeting for drinks—she could have been working with Rowan to get me out of the house.”

Gutierrez frowns. “You think this woman—Rowan—could have killed Leo Varrus? Do you have anything to substantiate that? Madison too?”

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