Sugar Free

  Caroline stops in midstep, but rather than freeze to inaction, she turns to grab my elbow and pulls me three steps into the foyer so we are almost toe-to-toe with Beck as he closes the door and engages the lock.

  "What's wrong?" she whispers so Ally doesn't hear us.

  Beck's tired eyes pass over Caroline briefly, but then slide to me where they shimmer with frustration. "The police are at JT's house. They've found him."

  "But how--" I start to say, because how in the fuck was he found so fast?

  Beck ignores me, turning to Caroline. "Get Ally and get out of here now. I expect the police will come to pay me a visit. Could be tomorrow, could be in five minutes, so get out of here now."

  "But--" Caroline says in astonishment.

  "Get the fuck out of here now," Beck whispers harshly but still so low that Ally is oblivious to us. "I want you far away from here when they show up. I don't want you becoming a potential witness to anything associated with JT."

  "What's that mean?" I ask, stepping into him and putting a hand on his chest.

  His gaze comes back to me. "By virtue of my long relationship with him, I'm going to be a potential suspect. They're going to come and talk to me. I don't want Caroline involved."

  I spin toward her and give a quick jerk of my head toward the living room. "He's right. Get Ally and get going."

  Caroline's no fool. She doesn't spare us even a second more before turning away and hurrying into the living room. I hear her say, "Come on, honey. Let's get your shoes on and head home. It's getting late."

  "I don't suppose I could talk you into packing a bag and heading to your dad's?" Beck says softly, and I turn back to look at him with raised eyebrows. He doesn't look apologetic over his suggestion. "We'll say you went there right after school to spend a few days with him. Your dad would cover."

  I shake my head almost violently and practically growl at him. "Don't even fucking think about trying to shield me from this, Beck. If they come, then I'll be here by your side, and if they even think you had anything to do with this, I'm telling them every goddamn thing that happened."

  I expect him to argue.

  I expect him to be angry at me, because I know he's in full-blown protective mode.

  I expect--at the very least--for him to look annoyed at me, because after the mess I've created, he deserves to at least look a bit put out.

  Instead, he snatches me to him so roughly my head snaps, but then I'm engulfed in his arms, which wrap around me tight. He squeezes me hard and his voice is desperate. "We'll get through this. I swear we will."

  I nod against him, not because I believe what he's saying, but because he needs to believe that I trust in him right now.

  The sad truth, however, is that I think that both of us are getting ready to fall down the rabbit hole and there's not going to be any way out for us.

  The knock on the door comes sooner than I expected, and only a little over an hour since Caroline and Ally left. I've been lying on the couch spooning with Sela, waiting for the other shoe to drop when they show up. The TV's been on, but neither one of us is absorbing. My hand is idly stroking her hip, wanting nothing more than to carry her into bed and for us to pretend none of this happened.

  That means I could strip her down, eat her out, fuck her hard. All of the stuff that's been so damn good and that I've taken completely for granted.

  But instead, Sela gives a quavering sigh when she hears the confident knock and we both push up and off the couch. Our eyes meet briefly and we both take a deep breath.

  "Just do as we discussed earlier and it will be okay," I whisper.

  She nods, her face pale but her gaze determined.

  I turn away from her, square my shoulders, and head toward the foyer. I hear the creak of leather as Sela lies back down on the couch, presenting the picture of lazy Monday evening happiness of just vegging out in front of the TV and streaming some mindless comedy we found on Netflix.

  I present the same, and it was done intentionally. I'd put on a pair of sweatpants, a ratty T-shirt, and my hair was flattened on one side from resting against the pillow on the couch. I hoped to look like a guy who wasn't just a few hours ago getting ready to wipe down a murder scene and potentially sink a body deep into Richardson Bay.

  Putting my eye to the peephole, I need to determine who would be sent to my house.

  Uniformed cops or plainclothes.

  I see a white, middle-aged man and a black woman probably in her late twenties. Both in dress pants and shirts without jackets, the man sporting a loosely knotted tie. Both are clearly detectives; I know this not because I can see their badges, but by the somber yet superior looks on their faces. Still, I school my features and try not to look overly surprised when I open the door.

  Had they been uniformed cops, my eyes would be wide with concern.

  But I think the best tactic at this point is to feign ignorance because for all I know, they could be Amway salesmen.

  I look at them expectantly as I swing the door open, but add a tinge of annoyance to my voice. "Can I help you?"

  The male cop, who has dark receding hair and a slight belly, pulls a badge I now see firmly clasped to his belt and holds it up to me. "Mr. North...I'm Detective Paul DeLatemer with the Sausalito PD."

  My gaze lands hard on the badge he holds up and then I pinch my eyebrows inward. A pained expression takes over my face. I go on the offense and blurt out, "Something's happened to JT, hasn't it?"

  This throws the cop off, as I'd hoped, and he turns to look at his partner, who shoots him a look of wary surprise before she turns to me. She also holds up a badge and says, "I'm Detective Amber Denning and yes...something's happened. May we come in?"

  I appear stunned for a moment, and then remember my manners, my voice sounding high pitched as I step back and wave them hurriedly in the door. "Yes, I'm sorry...please come in."

  They step into the foyer and I close the door behind them.

  "Sela," I call out, letting a touch of fear coat my words as I turn toward the living room. She pops up from the couch, as we'd discussed, and looks confused for a moment to see the detectives standing there. It's an amazing piece of acting if I do say so myself.

  Her throat is covered by a lightweight turtleneck she put on, because if we were going through with this whole charade of denial to the police, then they couldn't see the bruises on her throat. Sure, they could have been from a fall or even a sex choking game that got out of hand, but it was best for there not to be any notice or questions about it. Doesn't mean I didn't take pictures with my cellphone though, which I downloaded into an encrypted file on my computer. Just in case we needed the proof later.

  Sela's worried gaze flies to mine and I croak, "They're here about JT."

  "Oh no," she whispers, hand flying to her mouth to cover it.

  She looks so worried for the man who raped her, I almost burst into a spontaneous round of applause. I hold my hand out to her, and she scurries toward me in a move of solidarity and support. My arm goes around her waist and we both turn to face the detective with worried expectation.

  Both of them look at us in empathy for the impending bad news they're going to deliver, but I don't have a doubt in the world they're scrutinizing every word out of our mouth and every bit of body language we're conveying.

  "Can we sit down?" Detective Denning says. Her voice is crisp and forged with authority. She may be young, but I can tell she's a professional when it comes to awkward situations.

  "Of course," I say as I gesture to the dining room table.

  Denning takes the end chair, which I find to be a subtle indication that she's the partner in charge, despite being the younger of the two and a minority as a black female. DeLatemer takes the seat to her right, on the far side of the table, while Sela and I sit to her left.

  I scrub my hands over my face, back through my hair, and then huff out a sigh filled with regret and fear as I pin a direct look at Detective Denning. "How bad is he?"

&
nbsp; "Excuse me?" she responds.

  "JT," I say with a touch of frustration. "How bad did they beat him up this time?"

  I don't need any heightened sense of awareness to know I've shocked the cops sitting at my dining room table, and I can tell that the direction of their early investigation may have just gotten a little more interesting at this tidbit. Sela and I had a quick but unanimous decision on how we were going to handle the cops when they showed up.

  We could either wait for the bad news to be delivered and hope our manufactured reactions of grief for a dearly departed friend and business colleague would be genuine enough to fool them, or we could go on the offensive and lace enough truth into the story that it would throw the scent off of us.

  "Mr. North," Detective DeLatemer says from across the table in a gentle voice. My eyes slide over to him and I stare at him with a look of dread because I can hear it in his tone that he's getting ready to drop a bomb on two poor unsuspecting people. "Your partner, Jonathon Townsend...I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but he's dead."

  Sela lets out a gasp of horror and her hand comes to my shoulder to grip me in comfort. I make a choking sound and slump down in my chair where I mutter, "No...they wouldn't have killed him..."

  My voice trails off...my eyes lower to the dark teak wood and I clasp my hands together tightly. I can feel the heavy stares of both detectives as they take in my reaction.

  Perfectly on cue, Sela's fingers dig into my shoulder and she says, "It's not your fault, Beck."

  "I'm sorry," Detective Denning says, her voice still firm and in control, but there is an edge of confusion that gives me heart she's buying our hasty act. "But what's not your fault?"

  My eyes snap up to hers and I try to mix in some shades of self-loathing when I tell her the parts of the story I believe to be pertinent. "JT got into some gambling trouble. Owed four million dollars to someone in Vegas. They want to collect and they paid him a visit on Sunday. Beat him up pretty badly. He called me from the hospital--"

  "Which hospital?" DeLatemer interrupts me as he pulls a small pad of paper from the breast pocket of his dress shirt along with a pen. He clicks it once and starts scribbling.

  "Marin General in Greenbrae," I supply helpfully.

  "And he was beaten up?" Denning asks.

  I nod effusively. "Yeah...bad. He didn't tell me what happened at first. Just wanted me to take him home, but then he eventually told me about owing the money."

  "Who did he owe the money to?" DeLatemer asks as he looks up from his writing.

  I shrug. "He didn't say. Just that he owed the money for a gambling debt and that they threatened to kill him if he didn't pay up."

  "They give him a deadline?"

  I nod at DeLatemer. "Three days, I think he said."

  "And you weren't worried about that?" Detective Denning asks, and I turn my gaze to her. Her expression is cool, perhaps even a bit doubtful.

  "Of course I was worried about it," I snap at her, maybe with too much force, because Sela's fingers dig down into my muscles in warning.

  I blow out a frustrated breath, mutter a "sorry," and then look to Detective DeLatemer with what I hope are bleak and guilt-filled eyes. "He asked me for the money and I didn't give it to him. If they killed him, then it's my fault for not bailing him out, right?"

  The detective hunches over and writes more notes. I wait for another question, but nothing comes. I turn to look at Sela, and although my back is now to Denning, I still make sure to look at Sela with the same angst and guilt I just gave to the cops. "If I'd just given him the money..."

  "Don't," Sela says urgently. "You can't think like that."

  More silence while DeLatemer scribbles. I keep my mouth shut because I don't want to overdo it. Sela's hand falls from my shoulder and she grabs my hand. I smile at her and she squeezes me reflexively. We appear to be broken.

  I think.

  "I find it interesting you haven't even asked what happened to your partner," Detective Denning asks, and I turn in my chair slightly to look at her.

  I go for a hesitant but confused look. "What do you mean?"

  Her brown, almond-shaped eyes could be considered soft looking. But now they hold reserved belief mixed with focused curiosity. "I mean I think most people would be curious as to how he was killed. I mean...it was one of the first things his parents asked when we went to see them."

  I curse internally for the oversight, but before I can defend my completely manufactured actions, Sela says, "What does it matter to Beck how JT died? Why would he even want those gory details when he's clearly blaming himself for it even happening in the first place?"

  I want to turn to Sela and kiss her, but instead I let my shoulders sag with the weight of my guilt, and I don't even bother to answer Detective Denning's question. I let her think that I've got enough troubling my soul without needing to compound it.

  She startles me though when she stands from the table, pushing the heavy end chair away with the backs of her legs. DeLatemer jots down one more thing and then stands up, cutting a curt smile down at me. Sela and I also stand up, on edge and waiting to see what happens next.

  "Mr. North...I'd like you to come down to the station and give a formal statement," Detective Denning tells me.

  My mind races, and while I thought this was a small possibility from the start, I'm suddenly torn as to what to do. The stress of our charade is heavy, but we've maintained what I believe to be an easily believable story. But they'll want to dig more and they'll want alibis.

  That's not in doubt.

  "Actually," I say with an apologetic smile but command in my voice--the voice of a man with an advanced degree who runs a multimillion-dollar company. "I'd be more than happy to come and give you a formal statement. But not tonight, and you'll have to arrange it with my attorney."

  "And why do you feel like you need an attorney?" Detective DeLatemer asks, and I'm surprised by the challenge in his voice. I thought of him as the good cop in this duo.

  "I don't," I reply smoothly without losing eye contact with him. "But right now, you've told me my childhood friend and business partner is dead. The only place I'm going to be tonight is at his parents' house, offering them comfort and taking it back from them. It's what family and friends do in times such as these."

  "But you want your attorney there?" DeLatemer presses, and while I refuse to take my eyes off him and look at Denning, I can feel her smirking.

  I flash a grimace at him and make no secret of my disgust. "Detective DeLatemer...I get you want to solve JT's murder, and there's nothing more I want to do than help you achieve that goal. But whether I talk to you tonight or tomorrow, with or without an attorney, it's not going to change the fact that I have more important things to do tonight. I'm sure you understand."

  He gives me a knowing smile, but I see a hint of triumph in his eyes because I evaded his question and we both know it. He tucks his pad of paper and pen back into his pocket and doesn't respond to me. Rather, he walks around the dining room table and heads to the front door. Detective Denning turns to follow behind him.

  Sela and I watch as they open the door, and I feel like I won't be able to properly breathe until it shuts behind them. DeLatemer steps through and Denning follows, but she pauses just before she reaches for the knob to pull it closed behind them.

  "We'll be in touch," she says as she stares at me expectantly.

  I nod back at her.

  "Very interesting," she says, almost as an afterthought.

  "What's that?" I ask her, knowing I have to ask but dreading the answer.

  "We never said JT was murdered," she says and I see suspicion sizzling deep in her eyes. "Just that he was dead. You used the word murder just now."

  Sela steps forward, and before I can stop her, she sputters, "Well...that was just a common sense assumption when you show up at the door--"

  I grab her by her upper arm and squeeze gently. "Honey...Detective Denning's just doing her job. She wants to find the
truth and she's trained to pick up on those things and press them to her advantage."

  Sela doesn't say anything else.

  Denning inclines her head at me, almost as if she's silently saying touche, but as she pulls the door closed behind her, I know without a doubt that she didn't buy the load of crap we were just feeding her.

  Beck slips his key into the lock of the condo door and silently opens it. He pushes it open all the way and motions me in ahead of him. It's almost one A.M. and both of us are exhausted from stress, lies, and a lack of sleep.

  We've been at JT's parents' house in Sausalito, just two miles from their son. Neither Beck nor I wanted to go there, but we felt it was what innocent people should do. We both knew the police had us in their sights, and while they might also be following the theory that JT was killed by a Vegas bookie, they were not going to leave us alone.

  The time we spent at Candace and Colin Townsend's home was dreadful. We arrived to find Beck's parents were already there, because of course they were going to call their closest friends first with the awful news. JT's mom was wailing in the arms of her husband, who eventually gave her a Xanax to calm her down. It wasn't until she polished off a vodka tonic that she finally slipped into sort of a silently numb state of shock where she sat on a velvet couch while Beck's mom patted her hand in an awkward show of comfort.

  Beck's dad though?

  You could tell he was devastated, more so than Colin Townsend appeared over the news of the death of his son. He faced the windows of the library, where we were all congregated, and stared out into the blackness. He barely acknowledged Beck when we arrived and was clearly distracted. I wondered if he was trying to manage some type of internal pain that he may have been suffering as a father.

  We weren't surprised when Beck's mom called us not five minutes after the cops left to deliver the news. Beck, in turn, told his mom about the cops being there and that we were on our way.

  Again, we really didn't want to go, but it was what was expected of a grieving friend and partner of Jonathon Townsend. As Beck's girlfriend, I was expected to go as well, although what I really wanted to do was open up a bottle of wine and drown my misery over what has gone down as the single worst day of my life.

  Yes...even worse than the day I was gang-raped.