My stomach sinks through the floor.
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because she’s right about one thing. I don’t know him. Not the way I want to. Not the way I thought I was starting to.
But forgetting about Hunter Sterling isn’t something I know how to do.
It’s not that easy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
HUNTER
I haven’t been arrestedand taken in for questioning in over ten years. Last time, I was twenty-four, and it was a bar fight, with some mouthpiece from out of town who thought he could run his jaw about my family and walk out with his teeth still intact.
He couldn’t.
And now here I am. Sitting in a holding cell that smells like bleach, waiting to be brought in for questioning over the murder of a woman I didn’t kill. I’ve killed a lot of people in my life; it’s part of my job. But I did not kill Ashley.
I’ve got no reason to want Ashley dead. Hell, I wanted her to sober up, get her shit together, and be in Wyatt’s life. Not for me. For him. Because every kid deserves at least the chance to know their mother, even if she’s a mess.
An officer comes to get me. Cuffs click back around my wrists, and he leads me down a corridor and into the dingy room at the end. Single table. Two chairs on each side, and the kind of fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look guilty.
I glance up at the security feeds mounted in the corner. No red light. No blinking indicator.
They’re off.
Reese is already seated opposite Dawson, leaning back with his pen tapping a rhythm against the table. His suit jacket is off, and his sleeves are rolled. He looks like a different man in here, the version of himself he reserves for courtrooms and emergencies.
I’m led over and sit down beside him.
“Mr. Sterling,” Dawson greets me, and I can hear the strain in his voice. The discomfort of a man doing something he doesn’t want to do.
The officer who brought me here leaves, and the door clicks shut. I sigh and lean back in my chair. “I didn’t murder Ashley.”
Reese shoots me a look that could strip paint off a wall.Shut the fuck up.
Dawson wipes a hand across his forehead. He looks ten years older than he did an hour ago.
“Hunter. Look, this is out of my hands. They wanted to arrest you up in Red Creek. But I managed to take the case over, so it’s local.”
I nod.
Local means under Sterling protection. Local means the evidence gets handled by people I know, in a building I’ve walked through a hundred times, in front of a sheriff whose retirement fund has my name on it.
It means I have a shot of getting out of here.
“What evidence have they got?” I ask.
Reese clears his throat. He’s already got the file. “Circumstantial at best. You being at her house the night it happened, mainly. DNA is being tested on a cup left on the sink. Her boyfriend found her.”
I frown. “Yes. That was my coffee. Has he been arrested?”
Surely he’s the suspect. Not me.
“No. He has an alibi for her time of death; CCTV proves he was playing golf.” Reese taps his pen twice. “He didn’t do it.”
I blow out a breath that empties my lungs. “Alright. So who else could have killed her?”
Dawson shrugs. And the shrug tells me everything I need to know: he’s not looking. He’s not going to. “They want this pinned on you over there, Hunter. It’s an easy solve and makes them the heroes.”