I’m done questioning Tyler when he clearly doesn’t have answers. I push past him and practically run down the curved staircase that leads to the first floor, my heart thundering with fear. He follows behind me and murmurs, “They’re in the kitchen waiting for you. I’ll go hang out in the living room.”
“No,” I say curtly as I hit the marble foyer, which feels ice cold against my bare feet. “I want you in there.”
I have no fucking clue why the police would be at my house early on a Wednesday morning, but whatever the reason, it’s going to have an impact in the media. Tyler is going to have to handle that—which sucks because he’s bad with publicity—so he needs to know what’s going on. I hope to fucking God it’s not Midge.
Please be about anything but Midge, and I won’t ever ask for another thing again as long as I live.
Empty beer bottles, solo cups, bags of chips… there’s trash scattered everywhere I look as I turn right off the staircase and head toward the kitchen. Just another weeknight at Evan Scott’s house. Normally, Tyler would have someone on standby ready to clean this shit up, but I’m thinking plans changed a bit with the arrival of the police.
I glance into the living room, seeing a few people sleeping on the floor. I recognize them all… casual friends, not close. But trusted enough that I don’t care they crashed here. Tyler would have ensured anyone unknown to me personally left before the doors were closed and locked once the party was over. I have no clue what time that was because I know I was balls-deep inside the redhead for the first time around midnight.
When I turn into the kitchen, I’m immediately caught off guard by the two men standing there. When Tyler said police, I expected they’d be officers wearing the dark blue uniforms of the Raleigh Police Department. Instead, these men are wearing civilian clothes. One has on khaki pants and a pink button-down shirt with a police badge hooked at his belt. The other is wearing a dark gray suit with a white shirt, no tie. I don’t see a visible badge, but as if he could read my mind, he reaches into his interior breast pocket and pulls it out.
He flips it open, leaning toward me while holding it out for my inspection. “Mr. Scott… I’m Detective Simon Turnbull. That’s my partner, Detective Grady Kasick.”
I let my gaze flip to his badge briefly before saying, “What can I help you with?”
Detective Turnbull looks behind me, and I know Tyler must be standing there. “We need to talk in private.”
“Whatever you need from me can be said in front of Tyler. He’s my manager,” I tell him firmly. “He’s privy to everything.”
Turnbull turns to look at his partner and something silent passes between them, but I don’t like the slight smirk Kasick’s wearing. Turnbull turns back to me and with a short sigh, says, “Mr. Scott… Keith Carina was found dead late last night.”
Tyler’s breath hisses out in disbelief, but I can’t even make a sound because the air is clogged in my lungs. Surprisingly, my first internal reaction is one of deep grief mixed with stunned surprise.
“What happened?” Tyler manages to ask.
“He was shot,” Kasick replies bluntly. “Execution style in the back of the head.”
“Jesus fuck,” I finally manage on a ragged exhale.
“Can you tell us where you were last night between roughly midnight and four AM this morning?” Turnbull asks coolly. My gaze snaps to his, my stomach flipping over and then dropping at the hardness in his eyes.
“I was in my bedroom,” I mutter, my voice sounding shaky. And fuck… will they think that means I’m guilty?
“Alone?” Turnbull prompts.
I shake my head. “No, there was a woman with me.”
“The entire night?” Kasick asks with interest.
“From about midnight, she was. In fact, she’s in my bedroom now,” I say, throwing my thumb over my shoulder. “Before that, I was here at my house. There were a couple of hundred people who can attest to that.”
“I’ll go get her,” Tyler says quickly, but Turnbull says, “Hold up… let Detective Kasick go up with you.”
This thoroughly rattles me because that must mean they think Tyler would try to feed her a story or something to bolster an alibi. My fingers curl inward, pressing into my palms, and I take a deep breath as Tyler and the other cop leave the kitchen.
“Nice place you have here,” Turnbull says conversationally, his gaze roaming the gourmet kitchen with custom cabinetry, Viking appliances, and Italian tile. It looks like it belongs in a Tuscan villa and so not me, but what the fuck did I care? I have a lot of money now and wanted a nice house. Didn’t give a fuck what the kitchen looked like.
“Thanks,” I mutter and walk over to the Keurig sitting beside the sink. I pull a cup out of the cupboard. Out of a politeness I am most definitely not feeling, but also knowing I can’t be antagonistic, I offer to the other man, “Want a cup of coffee?”
“I’m good,” he says, and I don’t bother responding. Instead, I put the pod in the machine and watch as the coffee starts to steam into the cup.
“You been living here… what… about nine months now?” Detective Turnbull asks.