"Ma'am, is Ignazio Vitale here?"

Jameson.

My mother seems flustered. "Uh, yeah, sure." She turns to call for me, but I'm already standing there. My eyes meet Jameson's as his dance with amusement. Any reason to harass me is a field day to him.

"I'm assuming my father called you?"

Jameson nods.

"I wasn't aware petty trespassing was your jurisdiction."

"We also have a few questions for you."

"Of course you do."

"Trespassing?" my mother asks. "Who's trespassing?"

"I am," I tell her, leaning over to kiss her cheek again. "Thanks for lunch, Mom. It was great seeing you."

I step out onto the porch as an officer pulls out his handcuffs.

"Can you do that when she's not looking?" I ask. "Out of respect?"

My question is ignored, unsurprisingly, as I'm thrown against the railing, my arms forced behind my back. Once I'm handcuffed, I'm dragged toward a nearby car. I glance back at my mother, lingering in the doorway. She's horrified, eyes wide. She looks so much older now, just like that.

I should've just stayed away…

I don't say anything on the drive to the police station.

Nor do I say anything once we get there.

As usual, they wait until my lawyer arrives to even try to question me. We sit in the small dingy interrogation room, my arms crossed over my chest, as Jameson and his partner, Andrews, sit across from us.

"What is this about?" my lawyer asks. "I hope it's not to ask the same questions as before. My client knows nothing about the murder of Daniel Santino."

"Or John Rita… or the murder of John's wife, Carmela? He knows nothing of them either, right?"

"I'm sure if my client had any information about them, he would've come to you. But just because they used to be acquainted doesn't mean he knows what came of them."

"What about their daughter, Karissa?" Jameson asks, looking dead in my face as he speaks. "Does he have any information about her?"

"What about her?" the lawyer asks.

"We have reason to believe she's missing."

"Missing?" The word is from my lips instantly. My lawyer shoots me a glare that tells me to be quiet, as usual, but I can't help myself. Not when it comes to this. "What makes you think she's missing?"

"We received a report that—"

"A report," I chime in, cutting him off. "Someone filed a missing person's report? Because you just saw her yourself less than twenty-four hours ago, detective, so I'm not quite sure why your department would take a report on an adult who was just seen last night."

He pauses, glaring at me. "We received information from a source."

"A source."

"Yes, a source."

"And what did your source say, exactly?" I ask. "Because I can assure you, she isn't missing, and there's no reason for anyone to think she is."

"So is she at your house?" Jameson asks. "Because we went by there and nobody answered. She also didn't attend her classes today."

"She left."

"She left," he repeats, and I suddenly understand why it annoys Karissa when I repeat what she says. His condescending tone makes me want to punch him. "Where did she go?"

"You'd have to ask her."

"How can I get a hold of her? Where can I find her?"

"You're the investigator," I say. "Investigate."

He glares at me with so much hatred it almost makes me smile. Almost. He leans forward, across the table toward me. "Is she dead, Mr. Vitale? Did you kill her?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Because she let us into your house yesterday," he says. "Maybe that was what finally did it for you."

"You think I'd kill her for talking to you?" I ask, mimicking his movements and leaning forward. My lawyer tries to stop me, interjecting, but I ignore him. "If that's the case, shouldn't I have killed her long ago, when she first started talking to you?"

His brow furrows, and I see a hint of genuine confusion in his expression. He's struggling to recall when she talked to him. That tells me right away that Karissa had been telling the truth. Had she been his source, he would've purposely kept his expression blank.

"The fact of the matter, detective, is that Karissa's alive, so whatever your source told you is bullshit."

"So you didn't take care of her for talking to the police?" he asks. "Raymond Angelo didn't want you to get rid of her?"

"Raymond Angelo isn't the boss of me."

"Ah, right, because you walked away."

The moment he says that, it all clicks into place. He's practically reciting my conversation from this morning word-for-word. He had a bug planted there, but it wasn't the electronic kind. Ray sweeps for them daily, carefully controls who comes in and out of that place. No, he had a bug in the form of a rat. His source.

There was only one other person there.

One that's always there.

Brandy.

"I have nothing else to say." I sit back in my chair as I turn to my lawyer. "You want to handle this?"

"I'm trying," he grinds out, clearly annoyed I even played along with the detective's questions, but it gave me what I wanted. He goes into his usual spiel—charge him or release him, stop hassling my client or you're looking at a lawsuit—before I'm brought back out of the interrogation room.