Page 67 of Discover Me
Detective Grayson sits next to me, his notepad open and pen ready. We're trying to explain Colt's case to Micah, but the confusion on his face suggests we're not doing a great job.
"So Colt was found almost a state over," I repeat, keeping my tone even and professional. "Near the border, in a rural area. Derek was on the run for about three weeks before we caught him. He'd been living rough, camping in the woods and moving around constantly."
"What does this have to do with me?" Micah's voice is full of frustration. "They should have been arrested when I fucking fell off that ladder. Put behind bars for assault. But they weren't."
His hands clench on the table, one still favoring the other despite months of healing. "Did Derek kill him? Is that why you're here asking me questions?"
Grayson bites his lip, glancing at me. We discussed how much to share before bringing Micah in. The answer is: not much, but enough to get useful information if he has any.
"We're still investigating that possibility," I say carefully, using the voice I've perfected over years of interrogations. Calm, authoritative, not giving anything away. "Derek claims he didn't do it, but everyone claims that. However, there were some other signs at the scene that are making this case more complicated."
"We need to know if you know anything other than the few interactions you had with Derek and Colt," Grayson adds, his good-natured tone doing the work of putting witnesses at ease. We play off each other well, have for years. "We're questioning everyone who had contact with either of them in the weeks before the death. Standard procedure."
"It mentioned Hex in the newspapers." Micah leans forward slightly. "A serial killer? That’s what one of my friends said. What is going on? Are you saying Hex killed Colt?"
Grayson bites his lip again—a tell that means he's uncertain. He looks at me, waiting for my call on how much to reveal.
I sigh, running a hand over my face. "We don't know much more than you do at this point. Just what Derek has been saying since we caught him. He's been ranting about conspiracies and serial killers and cover-ups." I pause, watching Micah's reaction. "Your name came up a few times, which is why we wanted to talk to you."
"My name?" Micah's voice rises with alarm. "Why would Derek be talking about me?"
"He mentioned how it was all your fault." I keep my tone neutral, not wanting to spook him. "But I have a feeling that has more to do with the assault incident than anything related to Colt's death. Displaced blame, looking for someone to pin his problems on. We've seen it before."
Micah sits back, processing. Kellan's hand finds his under the table—I notice because I'm trained to notice everything in an interrogation room. The small gestures that reveal relationships, dynamics, comfort levels.
"I didn't even know them," Micah says, his voice tight with emotion. "Not really. They came into a bar one night, maybe three or four months ago. We talked, they bought me drinks. I thought I might let them get their dicks wet, take them home or go to theirs. But they turned out to be douchebags—aggressive, pushy, not respecting boundaries. So I said no and left." He takes a breath, anger bleeding into his words. "Then weeks later, they showed up at my construction site. Started shaking my ladder while I was thirty feet up, laughing about it like it was a joke. When I told them to stop, they just shook harder. I fell and nearly died. Fractured my arm, bruised my ribs, got this permanent scar across my chest from the metal I landed on."
I make notes while he talks, but I'm already familiar with the assault case. Read it when Derek's name came up in connection to Colt's death. The investigating officers did a shit job. Barelyinvestigated, wrote it off as an accident despite clear evidence of intent.
"The officers here dropped the ball on the case," Micah continues, his voice rising. "Wrote it off as an accident despite multiple people saying I was screaming at Derek and Colt to stop shaking the ladder. Even after my boyfriend called in with more information—information they only listened to because he's a fucking rockstar and apparently that matters more than a construction worker's word—it doesn't matter now. The case was already closed."
He looks directly at Grayson, then at me. "I had to pay all of my medical bills out of pocket because the assault charges didn't stick, which means worker's comp wouldn't cover it as a workplace injury. So the only thing I ruined was maybe their pride by saying no to sex. If that's enough for Derek to blame me for Colt's death, that says more about him than it does about me."
Grayson and I exchange a glance. This confirms what we suspected—Micah Davis is a victim of Derek and Colt's violence, not a participant in anything that led to Colt's death. Derek's ranting about him is deflection, trying to blame someone else for problems he created.
"Thank you for your time," I say, standing and offering my hand. Professional courtesy. "We appreciate you coming in to talk with us. If you think of anything else, anything at all about your interactions with Derek or Colt, please call."
I slide my business card across the table. Micah takes it, studying it briefly before pocketing it.
"Can we go?" he asks, already standing.
"You're free to leave," Grayson confirms. "Again, we appreciate your cooperation."
Micah and Kellan head for the door, clearly eager to get out of the police station. I don't blame them. This place has a wayof making even innocent people feel guilty, the institutional atmosphere pressing down like a weight.
The door closes behind them and Morrison walks in almost immediately, like he was waiting in the hallway for them to leave.
"So?" Morrison asks, settling into the chair Micah just vacated. "What do you think?"
Grayson doesn't hold back. "You're a fucking idiot for not pursuing that assault case properly. That was textbook assault with clear intent to harm. But no, Micah doesn't know anything about Colt's death. He's a victim who got screwed by your incompetence, not a suspect."
Morrison's face flushes but he doesn't argue. Can't argue, really. The case file speaks for itself.
"Isn't that Kellan Hayes from Lunar Ransom?" I ask, changing the subject before Grayson tears Morrison apart completely. "Well, just Ransom now, I suppose. My partner's kid won't stop talking about them."
"That's a whole thing, apparently," Grayson says. "He broke away from his label for unfair contract practices. Made a big statement about it online. Very dramatic, very public. The label's suing but it probably won't go anywhere."
"Interesting." But I'm already moving back to the case that actually matters. I open one of the files on the table, spreading out crime scene photos. "We have a bigger problem though."
