White Rabbit(36)
Sebastian has a point, of course—and a good one. Hayden is a mercenary prick who believes the rest of us are all just as bent as he is. But now my ex-boyfriend has got me thinking more carefully about that conversation. “Maybe I’m not right. He brought up the knife, Sebastian.” I settle my mouth into a determined line. “But April never said Fox had been stabbed—all she told Peter was that Fox had been killed. He could’ve been shot or poisoned or run over or drowned in the lake, as far as Peter was aware, so how did Hayden know there was a knife?”
Sebastian doesn’t get a chance to answer me. At that very moment, the doors to the station crash open and April appears. Pale and blotchy, her eyes swollen from crying, she’s flanked on one side by Peter and on the other by Lindsay Wells, their attorney—whom I recognize from my own legal dustups with the Covingtons. Purposefully, the three of them march straight up to the desk officer, where April speaks in a faltering, scratchy voice. “My name is April Covington, and I need to report a m-murder…”
*
The dominoes fall somewhat quickly after the big announcement. April is whisked through a door, along with Peter and Ms. Wells, and Sebastian and I finally introduce ourselves to the relevant authorities. My ex-boyfriend is squired away immediately, but it takes some ten minutes before a dashingly square-jawed young policeman in a patterned tie ushers me down a series of corridors and into a small interview room.
Introducing himself as Detective Lehmann, he asks if I want coffee. I nod, and he leaves the room briefly, returning with a cup full of what seems to be lukewarm battery acid. I have to wonder if it’s some sort of interrogation tactic.
I also kind of have to wonder if Detective Lehmann’s foxy green eyes, slim-hipped physique, and unruly chestnut hair are also part of the same brilliant strategy—a charm offensive to tease out my secrets. The guy can’t be much older than, like, twenty-four. Twenty-five tops. Immediately, I’m tempted to remind him that I’m above the age of consent in the state of Vermont, but I have a feeling that might weaken my position. Prudently, I remind myself that I’m about to lie to this man—this droolworthy cartoon prince of a man—and I need to keep my shit together.
Besides, he’s a cop; he undoubtedly already knows the age of consent.
“So, Rufus,” he begins, leaning back in his chair as if this were just a casual chat. “That’s a cool name—I like it.”
He spreads his legs a little, and I almost start to hyperventilate. Exhibiting tremendous self-control, I manage a neutral “Thanks.”
“I always wanted a cool name. Mine is Conrad.” He gives me an adorkably sheepish grin. “I hate it, but it’s sort of a family legacy. Our other legacy name is Humphrey, though, so I guess I got off kinda easy, huh?”
“Sure,” I agree, but his you-and-me Good Cop routine has just tripped my bullshit meter, and my guard begins to go back up by degrees. I’m used to authority figures trying to snare me in my own words, and I feel an instinctive mistrust of his pleasantness.
The time they kept me waiting for this little conversation comes back to me all of a sudden, and my shoulders go tense as I wonder if maybe the detective was checking up on me. Hayden was right: I do have a questionable history speckled with violent incidents, and it’s not going to help me in this situation.
Every kid has temper tantrums, but as my friends in daycare and elementary school were growing out of theirs, I was growing in to mine. By the age of ten, my tantrums had evolved into howling frenzies, episodes of rage so ferocious that they scared even me; my anger was like a physical presence inside me, one that would swell so large, my body simply couldn’t contain it any longer, and I would rant and flail and attack until I collapsed with exhaustion.
When my mom realized my issues were getting worse instead of better, she started looking into solutions. We went through a handful of mental health professionals and a slew of medications—from pills that made me paranoid and hyper to ones that made me numb and affectless—until we found the right mix. I haven’t had a serious outburst in over a year, and the meds I’m on now help me manage my emotions without making me feel cut off from them; but my past is my past, and I’m not anxious to start babbling excuses for it to a man with police credentials.
Detective Conrad Lehmann folds his arms behind his head, his biceps straining against his tailored oxford shirt, and fixes me with a friendly look. “So, Rufus Holt with the cool name, why don’t we start at the beginning. You tell me what happened tonight, in your own words, and I’ll stop you if I have questions.”
Clearing my throat, I do as I’m told, keeping my story as basic as possible. Liars often embellish, thinking little details are what give a tale its ring of truth; it is not so. Details are home to the devil, as they say, and every one you toss in becomes a trap to catch you out if you’re not careful.
As I speak, though, running through our reimagined timeline—wherein our visits to Lia, Arlo, Race, and Peyton all come before April’s call for help—my mind is wholly occupied with thoughts of Hayden. Is it really possible that he was hiding in the upstairs bedroom all along while we bumbled around on the ground floor? If he had murdered Fox, though, why on earth would he have still been hanging around the lake house when Sebastian and I arrived? Why wouldn’t he have left immediately? Unless …
It hits me so suddenly that I actually stop speaking for a moment in the middle of my account, faking a coughing fit so I can buy a few precious seconds to think. The money.