Page 77 of Jayson
I turn away before the engine even cuts.
By the time the knock lands on the heavy oak doors, Jayson and I are already there—side by side, the picture of polite wariness. I don’t look at him, but I can feel the heat rolling off him like warning flares. He’s in charcoal trousers and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, ink winding up his forearms like a warning label. His stance is relaxed. Controlled. But every inch of him is ready for war.
The door swings open.
A man steps forward, flashing a badge. “Detective Hawthorne, King County PD. This is Detective Lopez.” His gaze flicks between me and Jayson. “We spoke on the phone.”
Detective Hawthorne is in his mid-forties, military posture, wedding band glinting. Beside him, the much younger Detective Lopez eyes the place like she’s never seen anything quite like it.
“Come in,” I say, voice flat.
I don’t offer coffee. The truth is, I don’t know what they’re here to say. But whatever it is, it won’t be good. And I want to get this over and done with as soon as possible.
We settle in the blue sitting room—its velvet cushions and warm lighting do little to soften the suffocating press of the walls. Everything feels too quiet. Too staged.
Detective Lopez flips open a slim black notebook while Hawthorne stays standing, hands by his side like a soldier bracing for impact.
“We weren’t aware you had moved residences,” he says, tone light, but probing.
I sit straighter. “Is that relevant to your investigation?”
“We had a hard time tracking you down,” Lopez cuts in.
“You had my number,” I reply, voice clipped. “How hard could it have been?”
Lopez doesn’t flinch. “We’re actually here on two active cases now. Your father’s disappearance… and Riley Kincaid’s.”
The air is sucked clean from the room.
Ice floods my spine. “Riley? I thought her case was closed.”
“Not anymore,” Hawthorne says. “It’s too coincidental that you’re now connected to two missing persons.”
I feel Jayson stiffen beside me.
My fingers curl into fists. “What are you trying to say?”
“The pattern is... interesting,” Lopez murmurs, her pen tapping a slow, accusatory rhythm against the page.
A heavy silence creeps in. Jayson doesn’t move, but his stare is locked on Hawthorne like he’s calculating the exact force it would take to knock him through the window.
“We’re reopening the investigation into Riley Kincaid’s disappearance,” he says.
My blood starts roaring, loud enough to drown the clock ticking over the fireplace. The room seems to shift—floorboards groaning, air thickening, the walls pressing closer. The timing of this news is…odd at best.
I let out a breath, shaky and sharp. “It’s about bloody time.”
Lopez watches me, hawk-like. “You don’t seem shocked.”
“I’m not,” I say. “She didn’t just walk off. She wasn’t a runaway. I wondered how long it would take you to realize that.”
“Yet you were the last one to see her alive.” She tilts her head curiously, trying to read me.
“And your father?” Hawthorne asks, stepping forward, his gaze narrowing. “He’s been missing for two weeks. No calls. No trace of him. Why haven’t you reported him missing? Why haven’t you made a single effort to find him?”
The words hit like a slap.
I blink once. Twice. “Because I wasn’t close to my father.”
