“Where were you Monday night, after the altercation?” His voice dips, already expecting blood.
“I wasn’t involved in any altercation,” I say slowly. “He taunted her. She slapped him. End of story.” I pause. “She in trouble?”
His eyes flick away. Never a good sign. “She might be. Petergrind’s attorney is making noise. Said he’s filing charges over the slap, and other things.”
My jaw tightens. “The fuck ‘other things’?”
Because I know she did something. Of course she did. She doesn’t half-ass crazy.
“I need your alibi, Jett,” he says. “If this spirals, you need to be clear.”
“I had therapy. That pushed everything late.” I still won’t say her name. Like if I don’t, it’ll protect her. “After that, I had a client. Six to seven.”
“And after that?”
“I went the fuck home,” I bite out. “Long day. Didn’t trust myself not to actually give that fucker a reason to press charges if I ran into him again.” Not a lie. Not the whole truth either.
“Anyone see you?”
I snort. “Maybe the old bitch across the street. Mrs. Henderson. She’s eighty-seven, hates my bike, and has the eyesight of a goddamn falcon. Spends her retirement watching my front door like it’s her own private reality show.” My hand slips into my jacket pocket. Finds Delilah’s damn scrunchie.
Soft. Still smells faintly like whatever chaos she rolls in.
Little menace.
What the fuck did you do now, princess?
Walter nods. “Fair enough. I’ll talk to the neighbor. I believe you.”
“You should,” I snap. “Because it’s the truth. You gonna tell me what I’m supposedly tied to?”
He shifts uncomfortably. “Someone vandalized Chad’s car.”
Oh for fuck’s sake.
“Pink baseball bat was left at the scene. Mirror’s busted. Door’s dented. Lipstick on the window. Gummy worms and glitter everywhere.” He pauses. “It might hit felony levels, depending on what else the guy claims. And you know he will.”
My stomach turns. Glitter. Gummy worms. Lipstick. A pink bat, because of course.
Jesus pole dancing Christ.
Delilah.
You chaotic little siren.
I leave Walter to chase down my alibis. As much as I want to text her, call her, hell, hunt her down, I don’t. Not yet. I’ve got aclient in fifteen. Might need the cash to bail her ass out or make sure she’s lawyered up and not just charming some poor public defender with those eyes and that filthy, sugar-slick mouth.
The gym’s dead quiet when I get there. Lights humming low. Mats clean. No one shouting over the speaker or clanking weights. Just the sound of my boots on the rubber flooring as I head to the back.
I hit the lockers, half-starved and already regretting not scarfing a protein bar in the car. My hand goes to my combo out of habit and stops.
The lock’s gone. I know I set it. I know I snapped it shut.
I open the door slow, stomach tensing.
Inside there’s a pink bag.
Satin. Sequins. Something that belongs in a thirteen-year-old’s mall fantasy and absolutely does not belong in my locker. There’s a glitter-covered card perched on top like a trap.
