“So I broke in through a window I knew he kept unlocked and started looking around. But pretty soon, I heard a noise coming from his bedroom, and I realized that he was home.”
“And what did you find when you went into his bedroom?”
“He was there,” I say, my cheeks flushing at the memory. “And so was Sarah.”
In that moment—standing in Ethan’s bedroom doorway, staring at him and Sarah tangled between his ratty sheets—I remembered their hug at that party, the night we met. I remembered the way she cupped her hand over her lips and leaned in close, whispering into his ear. Ethan and Sarah had known each other from class—that much was true. But I would later find out that wasn’t the extent of their relationship. They had hooked up the previous year, and after a few months of us dating, they started it back up again, behind my back. Turns out I had been right about Sarah. Always taking what I wanted. Introducing us had been a game to her, a way to dangle herself in front of Ethan and then swoop in and reclaim him, once again proving that she was better than me.
“And how did he react to you barging in like that? Breaking into his apartment?”
“Not well, obviously,” I say. “He started screaming at me, saying he had been trying to break up with me for months but I was being clingy. Refused to listen. He painted me as the crazy ex-girlfriend breaking into his apartment … and he took out a restraining order.”
“And the blood stain on Sarah’s mattress?”
“Apparently she had accidentally gotten pregnant,” I say in a matter-of-fact numbness. “But she had a miscarriage. She was pretty upset about it, but she wanted to keep it a secret. For starters, she didn’t want anyone to know she had gotten pregnant, but she especially didn’t want them to know it had been with her roommate’s boyfriend. She had been holing up at Ethan’s apartment for the week, trying to work through it. That’s why Ethan didn’t want me to freak out about it and call her parents—or, God forbid, report her missing.”
Detective Thomas sighs, and I can’t help but feel stupid, like a teenager being scolded for trying to get drunk off mouthwash. I’m not mad, I’m disappointed. I wait for him to say something, anything, but instead, he just continues to stare in my direction, scrutinizing me with those questioning eyes.
“Why are you making me tell you this story?” I ask finally, my irritation from before creeping back in. “You obviously know it already. How is it relevant to this case at all?”
“Because I was hoping that recounting this memory would help you see what I see,” he says, taking a step closer to me. “You have been hurt in your life by people you loved. People you trusted. You have an inherent distrust in men, that much is clear—and who can blame you, after what your father did? But just because you don’t know where your boyfriend is every second of the day doesn’t mean that he’s a murderer. You learned that the hard way.”
I feel my throat constrict and I immediately think of Daniel—of my other boyfriend （no, fiancé） who I am now investigating on my own accord. Of the suspicions that have been piling up in my mind, of the plans I have for this weekend. Plans that are no different from breaking through Ethan’s apartment window, really. It’s an invasion of privacy. A proverbial snoop through the diary. My eyes flicker to the duffel bag at my feet, zipped and ready.
“And just because you have a distrust of Bert Rhodes doesn’t mean that he is capable of murder, either,” he continues. “This seems to be a pattern with you—injecting yourself into conflicts that don’t concern you, trying to solve the mystery and be the hero. I understand why you’re doing it—you were the hero who put your father behind bars. You feel like it’s your duty. But I’m here to tell you that it needs to stop.”
This is the second time I’ve heard those words in a week; the last was with Cooper, back in my kitchen, his eyes on my pills.
I know why you do it. I just wish you would stop.
“I’m not injecting myself into anything,” I say, my fingers digging deep into my palms. “I’m not trying to be the hero, whatever that means. I’m trying to be helpful. I’m trying to give you a lead.”
“False leads are worse than no leads at all,” Detective Thomas says. “We spent close to a week on this guy. A week we could have spent on someone else. Now, I don’t necessarily believe that you have malicious intentions here—I do believe that you were trying to do what you think is best—but if you ask my opinion, I think that you need to consider getting some help.”