"Detective," I say, nodding at him as his partner joins his side. "To what do I owe this honor?"

Just as I say it, the officer patting me down roughly grabs my crotch. I close my eyes, groaning, willing myself not to react. Jackass.

"Just in the neighborhood," Jameson says casually as the officer grabs the back of my coat and yanks. I stumble, clenching my hands into fists, as Jameson's smile freezes, his eyes darting over my shoulder. "I think that's enough. He's clean."

"As always," I say, lowering my arms.

"Can never be too sure," Jameson says. "By the way, I heard you were out of the country last week… Italy, was it? Vacation looks good on you. You look… refreshed. Better than you looked a few months ago after your little trip to Vegas. Could be worse, though, right? Heard you lost a friend on that vacation."

I curve an eyebrow at him. "How about you cut the bullshit and tell me what you want? I'd like to be on my way."

"Ah, I thought maybe we could chat."

"Chat."

"Yes."

"Man to man? Or detective to witness?"

An officer behind me laughs. "More like suspect."

Detective Jameson shoots him a look that silences the man. Tension escalates. Suspect.

"If you have any questions for me, refer them to my attorney," I tell them. "Otherwise, I have nothing to say."

I try to walk away when Jameson steps directly in my path, blocking me from leaving. Scathing words are on the tip of my tongue from impatience, but they're stolen from my lips when he motions toward the uniformed officers. All at once someone grabs a hold of me, forcing my hands behind my back. I struggle as they yank me backward, slamming me against the hood of the police cruiser as they put handcuffs on my wrists.

Pain rips through my side as I grimace.

"Uh-uh," Andrews says, strolling over and bending down so he's eyelevel with me. "You know not to resist."

I'm yanked back upright once I'm handcuffed.

"You have the right to remain silent," Jameson says, his voice monotone as he mutters the words. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand your rights?

He doesn't wait for my answer.

I'm shoved in the back of the police cruiser and hauled down to the police station, taken right to an interrogation room and left there.

An hour passes, maybe two.

It feels like forever until the door opens again and the detectives walk in with my lawyer on their heels. The man doesn't greet me. It's pointless. He's here to do business and he gets right down to it.

"What's my client charged with?"

"He's not charged with anything yet," Jameson says casually, taking a seat across from me. "He's being detained under suspicion of murder."

"Which murder?"

I nearly laugh at the way my lawyer words that, unable to stop the small smile from tugging my lips, as Jameson stares at him incredulously. It wasn't a "what" murder; it was a "which" murder, like maybe it could be more than one.

It could be…

"The murder of Daniel Santino, of course," Jameson says, looking between us. "Is there another we should be looking into?"

"Of course not," the lawyer says. "And as far as Daniel Santino goes, we have humored your questions numerous times, and the answers have always remained the same. Mr. Vitale had no reason to want to harm the man. There was no bad blood between the two of them. With no motive, and no evidence, it's clear you're just grasping at straws, and you have been for quite some time."

"Oh, but we have a motive," Andrews chimes in, sitting up in his chair attentively. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, Vitale, but your fiancée was one of Santino's students at the time of his death."

"So?"

"So our sources tell us she had a bit of trouble in his class, so you did something about it."

"Sources?" I chime in curiously. I hate that word. Sources. They're rats. "And who, exactly, would your sources be?"

"Now that we can't tell you," Jameson says. "But the informant is credible."

Informant. Yet another synonym for rat.

"Let me get this straight," the lawyer says. "A nameless source told you Mr. Vitale murdered a lifelong acquaintance because of conflict in a college class? Your motive is a bad grade?"

"It goes a bit deeper than a bad grade," Jameson says. "Santino was giving her a hard time."

"Is there any record of this?" the lawyer asks. "Complaints to administration? Grievances filed? Requests to transfer out of his class? Any proof she struggled? No, of course not. Instead you're relying on secondhand stories from anonymous sources. I have to tell you, detective, you're probably better off trusting the testimony of Pinocchio if you're looking for a grain of truth."

Neither detective is amused by the declaration, but I find it quite humorous. I would laugh if I weren't so uneasy by what he just said. I have suspected it for a while, but they all but confirmed it for me this afternoon.

Someone has loose lips that I'm going to have to seal shut again.

"Speaking of lifelong acquaintances," the detective says. "I want to talk about John Rita."

"Then talk about him," I say, "but I can't promise I'll listen."