“I’m not concerned about keeping anything from you.”
My stomach gives an uneasy twist. Is that because I’m not a threat?
Ignoring the unpleasant thought, I gingerly pick up a pile of papers and begin to sort through them. Scribbled notes on what seem like totally random subjects. Theoretical physics, black holes, a book titledHistory of Man. “Researching something?”
“Just things I find interesting.” He reclines on his bed, and I have to resist the urge to look up at his stretched-out figure.
A few of the papers are sketches. A tall tower, a surprisingly elaborate forest, a sandcastle, a set of hands tightly gripping a book. Nothing super artsy but still pretty good.
I pause on a sketch of the moon.
“I’ve tried drawing the sun, but I cannot get it right.”
I pick up another book. “Anna Karenina?” I mock.
He shrugs. “Trevor likes it. It’s alright.”
Another book is theArt of War. I flick a brow at that. “You would.”
I notice his lips curl from the corner of my eye, but I continue to resist looking at him. I flip through the book, curious. I’ve seen it before, and I’ve readsummaries of some of the passages on the internet. I’ve never read the actual thing.
“You can borrow it if you want. I honestly think you’d like it.”
I shut the book and shrug but keep it tight in my grasp.
“Want me to play some music?” he asks casually.
I smirk. “Is this the part where you play Clair De Lune and we bond over our ancient taste in music? ’Cause I’m really more of a Taylor Swift kinda girl.”
He snorts. “We’re the same age.”
“So, no classical music, then?”
“I can play some jazz from the twenties. Is that old enough?”
“I’m good.” I look down at the book in my hands. “You really don’t mind me just rummaging through your things?”
He sits back up. “Not really. I figure it might help…”
My brow furrows. “Help?”
“Take your mind off the reason we came in here. If you don’t want to face it, we don’t have to.”
I press my fist to my mouth and then slide it away quickly to cover my panic. Honestly, I’d forgotten about the autopsy. Or maybe he’s right; I allowed myself the distraction so I could forget.
“You’re welcome to rummage through my books and notes any time.”
“Noted,” I say much more quietly than I’d intended.
Jarron doesn’t speak again. He just sits, waiting for me.
“Where is it?” I finally ask.
He nods toward a manila folder sitting on top of the shining black table by his bed. I blink rapidly. It was right there the whole time.
He opens his mouth to speak, but an embarrassed anger stirs quickly, and I snatch the folder from the table. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe because Jarron keeps being so nice and considerate and it’s making me feel weak. Making me feel like the damsel he must protect, and I don’t ever want to be that person.
Without leaving my spot on the ground, I flip it open straight to the picture of a limp hand covered in blood.
