Page 38 of Keep Me

I hear her laugh softly, then say, “I was, by the way.”

“You were what?”

“Thinking of you.”

“Fuck,” I groan, sliding back out of bed. “I need a fucking smoke.”

1. Where Are You?—Elvis Drew, Avivian

2. Cravin’—Stileto, Kendyle Paige

Chapter 18

Wilson Goyle

Reggie

In the car the next morning, there’s a new looseness between me and Roan. Like some fibers of the dangerously taut rope tying us together have frayed, making the tension a little more bearable. The pillow was still between us this morning, both of us acting like last night never happened. No lingering hidden glances. No barbed words or weighty silences.

I turn down the car radio’s volume. “Are you going to ever tell me where we are going?” Roan immediately spins the dial back up. “Hey! You can’t keep turning up the music any time I ask a question.”

“Okay,” he agrees amicably.

“Thank you,” I huff with a smile.

Then he turns it up again. My next question disappears when I see a big wall of flashing blue and red down the road. There are big, yellow barriers barricading the rest of the road. Behind them, police cars park across the two-lane road.

“Roan, we should turn around.” What if it’s a trap? What if the man that broke into my apartment has tried a more elaborate ruse to get to me?

He doesn’t seem concerned or like he’s going to stop. “Roan, do you know what this is?”

“Yes.” He pulls right up to one of the barricades, and my heart beats faster. The faces of the many cops turn and peer in our direction. Two policemen rotate the barrier so Roan can drive through and up a long, private driveway.

We’re in one of the most expensive areas of June Harbor. The Greek revival mansion sitting at the end of the drive must have been a private estate at one point, but now has a large sign reading Wilson Goyle Law. A group of people dressed in suits and formal dresses gather on the lawn across from the house like they’d been evacuated. A few cops are dotted among them.

Roan parks with a sneaky grin on his face that makes me ask suspiciously, “What are we doing here, Fox?”

“There was a bomb threat—”

“Here?” My stomach drops, and my hand grabs onto the door handle reflexively.

“Shit—no.” He runs a hand over his head. “Well, yes, but not for real.” His eyes pinch with worry, like he’s only just now realizing a bomb threat might make me a little panicked. “It’s the gray-haired man.” He throws a hand toward the house.

“Oh my god, was he murdered?” My pulse spikes.

“No.” He gives me a crooked smile. “At least, not yet.”

He takes the keys out of the ignition, and I frantically ask again, “Then what are we doing here?”

“I thought you might want to ask him a few questions.” A pleased smirk tugs on his lips as he gets out. Still trying to piece everything together, I climb out and shut the door behind me.

“Put this on.” He hands me a navy windbreaker and ball cap. He shrugs on an identical one and pulls his hat low down his face. I hold the jacket out to read the big, yellow lettering on the back: JHPD. June Harbor Police Department.

“You know, impersonating a cop is a felony,” I tease, sliding the windbreaker on.

“I’ll take my chances,” he says with a smug tone. We walk across the parking lot toward the building. He arches his brow with a devilish lilt in his voice when he asks, “So, what do you think?”

“Hmm. So is he the Wilson or the Goyle?” I ask as we walk up the steps.

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