“Uh, yeah.”
“My little brother kind of has a—let’s just go with mammoth—crush on you.”
Sawyer’s cheeks flushed red, and she felt the heat go to her ears. “Oh.”
“So, what can I do for you?”
“Oh, right. Actually, I was looking for Detective Biggs. Is he in?”
Stephen checked his watch. “He probably won’t be in for another couple of hours. Is there something I can help you with?”
Sawyer chewed her bottom lip. “Well not to be rude but no, I don’t think so.”
“Okay, let me put it this way: Detective Biggs won’t be in for another couple of hours, and even then, it’s pretty likely you’ll be talking to me. I’m his liaison.”
Sawyer smiled in spite of herself. “Liaison? That sounds very French.”
“And masculine, right? Why don’t you follow me over to the conference room and you can tell me what’s going on. I can start the case file for Detective Biggs.”
Sawyer’s fingers still worked the strap of her purse, and she felt herself shift her weight from one foot to the other. “Well…”
But Stephen Haas’s face was so earnest, so open, that Sawyer smiled thinly and followed him into the conference room.
“So,” he said, whipping out a yellow legal pad, “what can I help you with?”
Sawyer’s eyes followed the blank lines on the notebook, and she licked her parched lips, fisted her hands, which seemed clammy once again. She cleared her throat. “Well,” she began, feeling her mind whirl with everything that had happened—and how preposterous it would sound. “Maybe I’m making a big deal out of nothing.” She stood. “You know, I should really just go.”
Stephen laid a gentle hand on her forearm. “Sawyer, if whatever is bothering you is enough to make you drive all the way down to the police station at seven o’clock in the morning, it’s something I want to hear about. Besides”—he flashed that sweet, relaxed smile of his—“I’ll be the judge of whether or not we send in the SWAT team or the guys in the white coats with the straitjackets.”
Sawyer sunk back down, still nervous, but feeling a genuine smile twitching at the edges of her lips. “Well, Detective Biggs came to my house a few weeks ago—just after my boyfriend, Kevin Anderson—died in a car accident.”
Stephen nodded. “Kevin Anderson. It was a drunk-driving accident, right?”
Sawyer pinched her lip. “Yeah. But they think someone else was in the car. Someone who escaped. They think it was me.”
Stephen’s eyebrows rose. “And was it?”
“No. No. We got in a fight that night and when I left him, he was drinking but he was alone.”
“Okay. But I don’t see how this is—”
“And the Monday after his funeral,” Sawyer went on, her eyes fixed on the faux wood grain veneer on the conference table, “I got a note. It said, ‘You’re welcome.’ And there was a newspaper article with the note—it was the one about Kevin’s death.”
Nate leaned back in his chair, sucking in his breath and tapping the end of the ballpoint pen on the still-blank notepad. “Sounds like a prank to me. A prank in really bad taste.”
“And then my Spanish teacher was killed.”
“Uh, Mr. Hanson, right? Logan told me about that. But he wasn’t murdered; he died of an allergic reaction.”
“Yeah, but then I got another note. Oh, and before that, we were at a party and someone attacked my best friend, Chloe Coulter.”
“Can you spell that last name?”
Sawyer bit her nail. “Maybe you shouldn’t write that down.”
Stephen raised his eyebrows. “Why shouldn’t I write it down?”
“It’s just—we were out, late—and Chloe’s parents don’t know.”
“If this was an attack, Sawyer, this is pretty serious. Tell me what happened.”
“It was serious. Someone tried to cut the brake lines on Chloe’s mother’s car. And Chloe walked outside—”
“Where did this happen?”
“Oh, at the Rutgers’ house. But maybe you shouldn’t—”
“Let me guess. This girl’s parents didn’t know they were hosting a party?”
“It was a guy, actually, Evan. Evan Rutger. And no.”
Stephen sucked in a breath. “Okay. Just tell me what happened and we’ll figure out who to talk to—if anyone—after, okay?”
Sawyer nodded. “Okay, I guess. Anyway, someone hit Chloe in the head.”
“Was she injured badly?”
“Not very. But enough. He drew blood.”
“So you know it was a male.”
“No, not—I mean, that’s what Chloe said, but she also said she really didn’t get a good look at him.”
“Did anyone call this in?”
Sawyer shook her head again, feeling slightly ashamed. She should have made Chloe call the police that night. “No. Chloe didn’t want to get in trouble.”
“Okay, so your friend got attacked. Did she receive any of these notes?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Has anyone messed with your car? Have you seen anyone who fit the description of Chloe’s attacker?”