“You know, it’s a crime to lie to a police officer.”
“Spare me. You’re a glorified secretary with a taser.”
“She comes to me for help, then she insults me…” He shakes his head in faux-serious hurt. “I’m gravely wounded by your lack of respect.”
“Do me a favor and set that aside for a second. I came here because after seeing Archer…” I trail off, struggling to put my thoughts into words. “The way he looked… Those scars on his hand…”
“Ah.” Chris grimaces. “You have questions.”
“Yes. I have so many questions, I can’t see straight. I can’t sleep at night. And you’re the only person I can think of who might have the answers.”
Suddenly, he’s avoiding my eyes like the plague. “It really isn’t my place to say anything about what went down with Archer last summer.”
“Last week, you couldn’t wait to fill me in!”
“Yeah, well, that was before Archer practically tossed me across the docks for mentioning your name.”
My heart skips a beat. “He didwhat?”
Chris shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. You’re a sweet girl, Josephine. I like you. I really do. But I have to stand with my boy Reyes on this front. Bros before—”
“So help me, if you call me a hoe right now…”
“Fine. Pricks before chicks. Men before hens. Guys before girls with pretty blue eyes. Males before—”
“Please stop now.”
He leans back in his office chair, pinning me with a look. “I’m sorry. I really can’t say more.”
I chew my lip, trying to hold back the words fighting for freedom. “Can you at least tell me…”
“What?”
“Is he okay? Because… he didn’t seem okay.”
Something in Chris’ expression goes dark. “Okayis a relative term.”
“Is he in some sort of trouble?”
“Trouble is also a relative term.”
“Tomlinson, I swear I will hurt you. I may be petite, but I woke up with violence today.”
“Shaking in my boots, over here. But I’m still not spilling the tea. Sorry, Valentine.”
I make a sound of vexation somewhere between a growl and a groan.
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger! This is not my story to tell. If you want to know the truth about last summer, it’s going to have to come from Reyes.”
“If you won’t give me any details, then you at least have to tell me where to track him down. Because other than roaming the fish docks of Gloucester Harbor for a bearded lobsterman who only vaguely resembles the boy I grew up with, I’m not sure where to start.”
“The docks are actually exactly where you want to start,” Chris informs me, heaving a sigh of deep martyrdom. He pulls the cap off a pen and scribbles something down on a notepad. Tearing off the top sheet, he passes it to me. “Here.”
I glance down at the piece of paper. Beneath the MBTS police department letterhead is an address in navy ink. I don’t recognize the street name, but it has a Gloucester zip code.
“What’s this?”
“Answers.”