This was Brandon’s voice from inside the motel room. A series of thumps sounded against the wall, followed by metal clinking against metal. Logan pressed her palms to her forehead. It was finally happening—after months of speculation, they finally had enough proof to arrest Brandon. They thought he was responsible for the deaths. After all the slurs, the whispers, the glares, Paris was finally going to do it. He was going to take Brandon away.
Except it wasn’t Brandon being led from the motel room.
Alejo emerged with Sheriff Paris close behind him. His hands were pinned behind his back, balled into fists like all his fear was concentrated in his fingers. Brandon followed them out of the room and wedged himself between Alejo and the cruiser. His chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes wild with quiet panic. Behind them, Deputy Golden stood at the motel room door, brow furrowed in quiet confusion.
“Woodley,” Paris sighed. “You gotta move.”
“You know he didn’t do anything,” Brandon said. “You know he didn’t.”
“How would I know that?” Paris asked.
“He wasn’t here for the first one.”
“We haven’t found Tristan Granger’s body. He could still be alive,” Paris said. “Which is the point of questioning. Unless you have information I don’t.”
“He wasn’t here.”
“Is there something you wanna tell me?”
Brandon grimaced.
This was all wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be Alejo. It made no sense. Brandon was right—Alejo wasn’t in Snakebite when Tristan disappeared. Alejo wouldn’t kill anyone. This was the same man who got emotional when someone cried on his favorite cooking show. The same dad who had to turn off the news if there was too much violence.
Alejo looked at Brandon with a quiet expression she couldn’t read.
“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s gonna be okay.”
“If he didn’t do it, he has nothing to worry about,” Paris said. He patted Alejo squarely on the back. “You know me and him are friends.”
Quietly, Deputy Golden stepped to Paris’s side. “We’re okay to take him in? Just … like that?”
Paris’s jaw clenched. “I don’t want to do this, either. But there’s a witness.”
Logan blinked. Alejo narrowed his eyes. Brandon’s face drained of color.
“How could there be a witness?” Brandon asked.
“Woodley, move.”
Brandon stepped aside.
“No,” Logan muttered. “No, he didn’t do anything.”
Paris paused. He glanced at Logan over his shoulder and his expression was complicated; concern and confusion tugged at his focus. He motioned to Brandon and said, “Why don’t you take Logan inside. She shouldn’t be out here for this.”
Logan’s heart hammered in her chest. This was wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
Brandon approached her tentatively, hands raised in front of him as if she were some kind of wild animal he had to calm. The fear in his face made her sick. He was supposed to be fighting for Alejo, not talking her down. Even if he didn’t care about her, he was supposed to fight for Alejo.
He offered her a small frown. “Let’s go inside.”
“You’re just gonna let this happen?” Logan asked.
“What else is he supposed to do?” Alejo said as Sheriff Paris ducked him into the back seat of the cruiser. His expression softened. “Go back inside with your dad. I’ll be okay.”