Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 103552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
“I’m in,” I agreed.
I threw my hair in a ponytail and put on my regular uniform for a day at the brewery—a Sawyers Bend Brewing polo and jeans. We were quiet on the ride into town.
Jim was sitting at Amanda’s desk in the front of the station.
“Everything quiet?” West asked when we walked in.
Jim looked at me with interest, but didn’t ask why I was there, instead answering West. “All quiet,” he said. “Hasn’t made a peep. Ate what we gave him, slept a little.”
“He hasn’t asked for an attorney?”
“Not yet.” They shared a look, and then West shook his head.
“We’re going to go back.”
Jim nodded. “Good luck.”
West pulled out his keys, unlocking the doors that led down the hall to the holding cells. Cole was in the one at the far end, where the drunk had been housed the day of the arson. Somehow, Cole still managed to look like a model, if a little worse for wear. His pants were still creased, his button-down smudged with dirt but still tucked in. His sharp blue eyes tracked us as we came down the hall, appraising us as we stood on the other side of the bars.
West crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m curious why you haven’t asked for a lawyer,” he said into the silence.
Cole gave a casual shrug. I didn’t buy it. There was nothing casual about Cole Haywood.
“I have questions,” West said. “But I’m reluctant to ask them at the risk of you calling for a mistrial later, as you aren’t represented yet.”
“That’s assuming I answer them,” Cole said.
“Good point.”
“I haven’t decided on representation yet. I’ll let you know when I do,” Cole said, his voice and eyes cool. He didn’t seem particularly worried about being in jail—because he thought he was getting out, or because he knew he could handle whatever was to come? I didn’t know.
“And will you,” West asked, “answer my questions?”
Cole’s head tilted to the side. For a second, he reminded me of a predator examining its prey. I leaned into West’s side. Despite the bars between us, I couldn’t forget the threat that was Cole Haywood.
“I might. Turn off the cameras, any recording devices, and ask. Can’t promise I’ll answer, but I’m curious. What is it you think you haven’t figured out?”
West weighed the request and nodded. He pulled out his phone, tapping the screen. “I can deactivate them from here.” He pointed to the camera high in the corner of the hall, out of reach of the cells, and to another at the other end. “Between the two of them,” he said, “they cover all the holding cells.”
Cole watched as the lights on each camera flicked off. West showed him the screen on his phone, then me, clearly indicating that both cameras had been deactivated.
“Why did you wait?” I demanded the second West nodded at me. “I asked you in the car, and you didn’t answer. Why did you wait so long between what happened to Caro and shooting Prentice?”
Haywood stood, crossed the small cell to stand just on the other side of the bars. He folded his arms over his chest and looked down at me, his eyes smug. “I didn’t.”
Not the answer I was expecting. “What does that mean?” I demanded. “Obviously, you did. Caro died two years before Prentice.”
“I didn’t wait,” Haywood said slowly, “because I didn’t shoot Prentice.”
“Bullshit,” West said.
“Yeah?” Cole raised an eyebrow, dropping his hands to his sides, tucking his thumbs in his pockets as if we were standing outside the general store and not separated by the bars of a jail cell.
“You think I killed Prentice?” he asked, blandly.
“You as good as said you did when you kidnapped me,” I argued.
Cole nodded, considering. “I admitted to a lot of things. And you can likely pin some of them on me, given that I confessed and you’re a somewhat reliable witness. But I never said I shot Prentice.”
I racked my brain, dredging up every word of the conversation I could remember, and let out a breath, my shoulders curving forward as I deflated. “No, you didn’t, did you?”
“No, I didn’t,” Cole agreed.
“Bullshit,” West said again.
“Is it, though?” Cole asked. “You follow the evidence, remember? That’s why you arrested Ford. Because you followed the evidence—the evidence I left for you.”
“You planted the evidence?” I asked. We’d known someone must have. If Ford had killed our father, he never would have been stupid enough to leave the murder weapon in his own closet. “If you didn’t kill Prentice, how did you get your hands on the gun?”
“Good luck and good timing,” Cole said with a curve of his lips.
“You happened to show up at exactly the right moment to grab the gun, to see Prentice dead, but you didn’t kill him?” West clarified, his voice dripping with suspicion. “Then who did?”