Page 38 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

She looks at me skeptically but doesn’t press. “Yeah, I need something strong after that torture session.”

We turn in the direction of the quad cafe but stop as a figure steps into our path. At first, I think it’s another student, but then I see the badge clipped to his belt.

“Rhea?” The officer’s voice is low but firm, his expression unreadable as he meets my eyes. Behind him, another officer waits, his gaze sweeping over the crowd.

My stomach twists, and Cassidy shoots me a curious look.

“Uh, yes?” I reply, my voice tinged with confusion.

“I’m Detective Ryan Sanchez,” he introduces himself. “We need to ask you a few questions about a party at the Sigma house last weekend,” the officer says, his tone making it clear this isn’t a casual chat.

I freeze, my pulse quickening as the memories flood back, The masked stranger––Thatcher, blood, Jack’s limp body…

Cassidy’s grip on my arm tightens, her carefree expression giving way to concern as she looks between me and the officer.

“Is everything okay?” she whispers, her voice laced with worry.

I nod, but the motion feels robotic. My throat tightens, and the weight of Thatcher’s text presses down even harder now.Time is running out, Dove.Is this what he meant? Did he know the police would approach me? Is he behind this? Did he finally report me?

The officer in front of me clears his throat, drawing my attention back to him.

“As you’ve heard by now, Jack Parker unfortunately was found dead at a Delta Sigma Rho fraternity house party and we’re making rounds, questioning all the people present. A few people reported you interacted with Mr. Parker briefly at the party, so we’d appreciate your cooperation in answering a few questions for us.”

Shit. People saw me with him? Oh, fuck. This isn’t good. But I must keep my face as neutral as possible, offering a slight nod. I try to look sympathetic even as my pulse races.

I feel Cassidy’s eyes on me, her grip on my arm tightening like a lifeline. I want to speak, to say something, anything, but my throat feels like it’s closing in on itself.

The detective watches me closely, probably noticing the sympathy I’m trying to portray.

It’s either this or prison. Fake it till you make it.

“I…I didn’t know Jack well. We only spoke briefly.” My mind flashes to the party—the noise, the crowd, Thatcher in his mask, and the sudden chaos that followed.

“We just need a little more clarity,” Detective Sanchez says, his voice steady but firm. “Can you recall the nature of your conversation with Mr. Parker?”

Cassidy’s grip tightens further, and I can feel her tense beside me. “Rhea, you don’t have to do this right now. You can get a lawyer or something, right?” she says, her voice shaking slightly.

“I-It’s okay,” I stammer, though everything about this feels anything but okay. I meet the officer’s gaze, and for a moment, I wonder if he can see the whirlwind of panic I’m trying to hide.

The detective’s eyes narrow slightly, watching me with a mix of patience and expectation. My heart pounds in my chest, and I feel like I’m on the verge of cracking.

“I—um, we didn’t talk much,” I start, my voice shaky. The lie stumbles out of me and I can feel Cassidy’s gaze burning into the side of my face, waiting for me to say more, but all I can think about is Thatcher. How he said he would protect me.

The detective nods, his expression remaining neutral. “Anything you remember could be helpful. Did Mr. Parker mention anything unusual? Did he seem upset?”

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “No… I mean, not really. He seemed normal. He was just talking to people. It was a party, you know?” My words tumble out, awkward and unsure. My mind races, trying to piece together what I can say without digging myself deeper into a hole I can’t get out of.

As I finish speaking, something catches my eye in the distance. I glance past the officer’s shoulder and freeze. Thatcher. He’s hovering near the edge of the quad, leaning casually against a lamppost like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His lips curl into a sly, knowing smile as he raises a hand and waves at me. My stomach tightens, my pulse quickening.

His green eyes lock onto mine, and a sudden, bone-deep realization hits me like a freight train. This isn’t just some mind game. This is a warning. His warning.

He’s getting impatient. The text, the police, the shadow he casts over every part of my life—it’s all part of his plan, and he’s reminding me just how much control he has. Nausea creeps up,threatening to spill over, and I fight hard to swallow it down. My breath comes quicker, shallow, as the feeling of a phantom noose tightens around my neck, pulling me further into his snare.

He did this.

The detective tilts his head, oblivious to the unease clawing at my insides. “Alright. If you remember anything else, here’s my card,” he says, holding out a small, crisp card. I take it with trembling fingers, the weight of it feeling much heavier than it should.

“We’ll be in touch,” he adds before stepping away.

---