Fuck off.

I can see Drake’s shoulders tense from here. I don’t have to be a genius to know that he isn’t Eddie’s biggest fan.

“Was Dina seeing anyone that you know of?” Drake questions, leaning forward.

“No, sir.”

“When we searched her apartment after finding her, we noticed something on her calendar I think suggests otherwise.” Drake pulls a photo out of a file and slides it across the table. “There’s an A marked on the days the fair is here. Nothing else. It doesn’t seem to be related to the business in any way.”

Jackson takes a photo. His shoulders visibly rise and fall, and he scrubs his hand across his face. “All right. I…suspected she was seeing someone. I wasn’t sure. Last year, we didn’t see each other as much, but I thought it was because I’m older now, but this year, it’s been even less.”

“Do you have any idea who it was?”

Jackson runs his tongue over his top teeth.

I bend forward and bite down on my thumb. He does. He’s pretty sure he does, at least.

“Mr. Bullock, if you know something and you’re withholding information…” Drake trails off, sitting back and resting his hand on the cuffs at his hip.

“I think she was seeing Alistair Carpenter,” Jackson answers slowly, looking at the window. It’s obviously a mirror on his side, but it’s almost as if he can see us, as if he’s saying the words right at me. “He’s been disappearing a lot. At least, he was last week. He’s only been gone once since she…died…and that’s because he was with some girl. I think her name was Robyn? I don’t know. Like I said, I keep to myself.”

I slap my hands against my knees. Alistair was with a Robyn? Is it crazy to think it was Robyn Torre? Our missing girl?

“Thank you, Mr. Bullock. That information is real helpful. Can I ask, what shoe size are you?”

“I’m between a nine and a half and a ten, depending where I buy them.”

“Interesting. Where were you between the hours of seven and ten a.m. this past Saturday?”

“Are you—are you accusing me of killing her?” Jackson asks quietly. His voice is barely a whisper, but it cracks halfway through.

“Not at all. Simply looking for an alibi to rule it out. I’m sure you can appreciate that, until we get any more evidence, everyone is a suspect.”

“I was in bed until eight when I saw her text about staying in California longer then headed to my truck to get it ready. We make the ice cream fresh.”

“Anyone who can back that up?”

“My dad saw me leave just after eight, but my sister was sick, so she didn’t help me like usual.”

“So that’s a no?”

“I guess.”

“Thank you. Detective Johnson just has a handful more questions for you. We’ll be obtaining a search warrant for your trailer later today. I hope you understand.”

Jackson nods. “That’s okay. I’d say you could go in, but I still live with my dad and he’s pretty mad I’m here.”

“Understandable. Officer Peters has declined to press charges after the incident yesterday, given your highly emotional state. You’ll be free to leave as soon as Detective Johnson is done with you.” Drake’s chair scrapes across the floor as he pushes it back and stands. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Bullock.”

He stands, adjusts his belt, and walks toward the door. It opens and shuts with a click, silence settling heavily in both the interview room and the one me and Sheriff Bates are sitting in.

“Well, flog my backside and call me Patricia,” Sheriff Bates mutters.

I suck my bottom lip into my mouth, bite down on it, and look up, desperately fighting my laughter. Inappropriate, Noelle. We do not laugh during interviews of a potential murder suspect.

We also don’t tell someone to, well, what Sheriff Bates said, but there we go.

He winks at me right as Drake walks in, bringing with him a thick dose of melancholy and suspicion. He leaves the door to swing shut behind him. It slams, the click of it echoing long after the boom from the slam has silenced.

He looks between us. His icy eyes are calculating and cold yet tired, and he runs his hand through his hair.

“I think we need to talk to Alistair Carpenter. Right now.”

I was afraid he was going to say that.

“I’ll get Judge Barnes to sign off your search warrant,” Sheriff Bates announces, grabbing the arms of his chair to help him stand. “I’ll call when it’s ready and send a team your way. Have we had any word on the whereabouts of Robyn Torre?”

“No, sir,” Drake replies, his jaw clenching. “A part of me hopes it stays that way.”

Because no news is good news.

No news means it’s a Schrödinger’s cat situation. She could be either dead or alive.

But we still have hope she’s alive.

I wish that weren’t all we have.

“Noelle,” Drake hisses, turning onto my road. “Why is your grandmother on your doorstep with that dang parrot?”

“She’s wha—oh fuck no,” I mutter, covering my mouth with my hand.

I just wanted to come home and change my shoes. That’s it. If I have to traipse around the fairground, I want to be in flats. Plus, the arch of my heel is making my foot ache.

All right. I also happen to be very fond of these Jimmy Choo pumps and I don’t want them to get ruined. My Louboutins already came too close to call from that crazy, muddy field.

I reach over and wrap my fingers around his forearm. “Keep driving. Right at the house. I’ll cut your brake lines if you just kill the fucking bird.”

He frowns at me, but his lips are quirking upward. “Noelle, I’m not going to run over a parrot.”

“Fine. Then take them both out. I won’t judge you. Know how many times I’ve dreamed of this?”

“Running over your grandmother?” He parks up next to Nonna’s little, gray Fiat 500.

I stare at him. He’s met her. He shouldn’t even have to question that.

I’ve also thought of taking her bungee jumping and cutting the cord, throwing her off a boat in the Gulf of Mexico, leaving her in the middle of a cornfield somewhere, and telling her she’s going to Florida for a vacation but sending her to a Mexican gang.

Every thought has coincided with a conversation about marriage. Coincidence? I think not.

“Noella!” Nonna waves frantically, a giant grin on her face.

“Will you run me over?” I beg Drake. “Go on. Just a little knock.”

He laughs and gets out of the car. “Hey, Nonna. What’s up?”

Fucking traitor. No more blow jobs for him.

“Ah, Drake! I need-a to talk-a to-a Noella! Her mamma is-a being un-a-reasonable!”

Oh fucking hell. If Mom’s being unreasonable, Nonna sure as hell is.

Seriously—it’s June. There’s still enough time for a thunderstorm, isn’t there? Go on, lightning bolt. Right on my head. Let’s do this.

I look up at the sky. Bright blue with the barest wisp of a fluffy, white cloud made blinding by the brightness of the sun. Epic.

“Why is the parrot here?” I ask, pointing at the cage.

“Hot wench!” Gio barks, following it up with a wolf whistle. “Hot wench!”

Drake holds his fist against his chin and rubs his thumb over his mouth. His smiling mouth.

Definitely no blow jobs for him.

“Nonna. The parrot. Please stop him,” I plead.

“I need-a you to look-a after him-a!”

“Wha—no! I’m not looking after that…that…creature!”

She gasps, flattening a hand against her chest. “That creature is my Gio!” she fires off in indignant Italian, her eyes flaring with offense. “He is my baby!”

“Yeah, well, I hate it,” I tell her, glaring at the bird.

“Hot wench!” he squawks, flapping his bright-green wings.

“Shit bird,” I fire back, pointing at him. “I told you, you little critter, that you’re never getting this ass, didn’t I?”

He stares at me, blinking a beady, black eye. He responds with a high-pitched wolf whistle that makes Drake wince.