How long am I going to be here?
It feels like I've been here for hours already, but I know I haven't. Fifteen or twenty minutes, maybe.
Too long.
I'm ready to start climbing the walls in the tiny room. The light overhead flickers. Phones ring in the distance. Someone is crying in the next room, loud wails slipping beneath the crack under the door. The walls are dull gray, the paint peeling in the bottom corner nearest the door. There is no clock, no pictures. Nothing except the light flickering overhead, the small table I'm sitting at, and three chairs. There isn't even one of those two way mirror things. Though I doubt they need one since there's a camera hanging in the far corner.
Why am I here?
Detective Lewis and his partner haven't told me much of anything. Though both were polite on the drive over, they barely said two words to me. Every time I glanced up from my lap, Detective Lewis' gaze was on me, though. But he wasn't smirking or laughing at me this time. He looked grim, his expression firm and unyielding as those gray eyes weighed and measured me as if he could see everything I've ever done wrong in my life.
I was too humiliated to ask questions, or to hold his piercing gaze for long. After the way I called him out last night, he probably thinks I'm a narcissist.
Why was he following me from bar to bar? Did he think his missing student would show up? That doesn't explain the way he watched me onstage. I didn't imagine the heat in his gaze and that cocky, devilish smirk. Did I?
Before I can come to a conclusion on that, the door opens and he steps into the room, a manila file folder in his hands. He catches my gaze and gives me a curt nod. All that heat from the last two days is nowhere to be seen. He's all business. He seems driven, focused. I can just imagine him doing the exact same thing in the bedroom―focusing completely on his partner and her pleasure until she can't take any more. I don't even know him, but my thighs clench at the thought of this man between them, wringing orgasm after orgasm from me.
I straighten up in my seat, shifting uncomfortably when I realize his partner isn't coming in with him.
It's just me, him, and my overactive imagination in this room.
Awesome.
I'm so screwed.
"Miss Kendall," he says, striding toward the table. "Sorry to keep you waiting."
"It's okay," I mumble, wringing my hands together as his scent wraps around me. He smells amazing, like saffron and wood, with a deeper, darker note I can't place. Whatever it is, it's sexy as hell and fits him perfectly. It reminds me of silk sheets, low groans, and orgasms. So many orgasms.
My stomach flutters. I fight the desire to lean closer and inhale that wicked, delicious scent.
Calm down, vagina. Today is not your lucky day.
He slides into the chair across from me, dropping his folder to the table. I keep my eyes on it instead of looking at him. My cheeks are already burning. I don't need to embarrass myself any further. A tape recorder lands on the table beside the folder, causing me to jump in my seat. My gaze flies to his, surprise shooting through me.
Why does he need to record our conversation?
What is going on?
The question is on the tip of my tongue when he speaks.
"Do you need anything before we get started? Water? A restroom break?" he asks, those gray eyes boring into mine.
"Um, no thank you," I whisper, licking my lips as that voice hits me in the gut again. It's even better in person. Hypnotic almost. I can absolutely imagine this man whispering filthy things in my ear while he takes me from behind, my hair wrapped around his fist and beads of sweat rolling down his body.
I squeeze my legs together again as that exact image flares to life in my mind.
Christ Almighty, I'm going to hell.
"Then we'll get started."
"Okay."
"Do you have any objections to me recording this interview?"
"No." I shake my head.
He turns the recorder on and then leans back in his seat, getting comfortable. He looks perfectly at ease as he watches me, his hands folded together on his stomach, his long legs crossed at the ankles. His hair is a little wild, as if he's been running his hands through it.
He is far too good looking. And, thanks to my run, I look like a hot, sweaty mess.
Awesome.
Kill me now, please.
"Please state your name and date of birth," he says.
"Uh, my name is Ivy Kendall. I was born on July fifteenth."
"What year?"
"1989."
"Miss Kendall, do you understand that you are not under arrest and are free to leave at any time?"
Under arrest? For what?!
My eyes widen as anxiety shoots through me. I thought I was just here to look at a picture and answer a few questions. Nowhere in there does under arrest come into play. My heart rate picks up.
"Miss Kendall?"
"Um, yes, I understand."
"For the record, do you have any objections to me recording our conversation?"
"N-no."
"Can you state your occupation?"
"I teach kindergarten at Trenton P. Hall Elementary. And I sing and play guitar around town on the evenings and weekends."
"Do you know why you were brought in today?"
"Something about a missing college kid," I mutter, my anxiety spiking again at how formal this whole process is. This isn't what I expected, and it's scary as hell. Gone is the cocky man from the bars who looked at me like he wanted to devour me. In his place a hardened cop sits, grilling me.
"Miss Kendall, how do you know Rory Clark?"
I blink at the question. "Like I told you when you called me, I don't know him. At least, I don't think I do."
"You don't know him or you aren't sure if you know him?"
"I don't know if I know him."
Detective Lewis flips open his file and slides a photograph out before placing it in front of me. I drop my gaze to it, scrutinizing the boy in the image. He's maybe eighteen or nineteen. He's cute in an All-American kind of way, with blond hair and blue eyes, perfect teeth and dimples.
"At this time, Miss Kendall is reviewing a photograph of Rory Clark," Detective Lewis says. He's silent for a moment and then, "Do you recognize him, Miss Kendall?"
"No," I say with a shake of my head. "I'm sorry, but he doesn't look familiar to me." I hand the photograph back over to him. His fingers brush mine, causing me to jump.
He notices―I doubt much of anything escapes his notice―but he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he pulls a sheaf of papers out of the file and holds them out to me. "Do you recognize any of these?" he asks.
I glance at the papers and then frown and look closer.
Ivy: Hey, baby. How was your day?
Rory: Way too long. I'd much rather have spent it with you.
Ivy: Same here. I need to feel your arms around me.
Rory: Soon, babe.
I shuffle through the papers. Every single one of them is full of messages between Ivy and Rory, growing hotter and more intense as the months pass by. There are photographs of me mixed in, along with more photographs of him. The last messages are awful.
Rory: I can't believe you stole from me!
Ivy: Oh, come on. You gave me your credit card.
Rory: I didn't tell you to spend 15k. You ruined my life.
Ivy: Grow up and stop being so melodramatic.
Rory: I can't pay my tuition. I'm going to get kicked out of school after this semester, Ivy.
Ivy: I said I'd pay you back. God, you act like I owe you a relationship because you gave me money. This is exactly why we didn't work out. You're so fucking clingy and whiny.
Rory: My life is over.
Ivy: Then kill yourself and get it over with.
Rory: Maybe I will.
Ivy: Oh, God, please do. The world would be better off. I know I would.
Rory: How can you say that to me?
Ivy: Easy. You're a loser.
R
ory: I loved you.
Ivy: Whatever.
I flip to the next page, my heart pounding.
Rory: I'm in San Francisco.
Ivy: Good for you.
Rory: Can we talk? Please?
Ivy: No.
Rory: I can't do this without you, Ivy. I don't want to be without you.
Ivy: Too bad.
Rory: I'm going to jump off the bridge.
Ivy: Good. Don't chicken out.
Rory: I love you.
"What is this?" I ask, horrified.
"These are text messages and Facebook conversations between Rory Clark and his girlfriend, Ivy Wade."
Ivy Wade. A sick feeling gnaws in the pit of my stomach at the familiar name.
I glance up at Detective Lewis, stricken. "What happened to him?"
"That's what we're trying to find out," he says, his expression grim. "Mr. Clark disappeared from the UCLA campus where he was enrolled over a week ago. No one has seen or heard from him since."
My gaze falls to the page in front of me. The last messages were sent last Sunday morning.
I want to throw up.
"I didn't send these," I whisper, pointing at the sheaf of papers. My finger shakes.
"You don't recognize any of them?"
I shake my head.
"I need you to answer the question out loud, please."
"N-no, I don't recognize them. I didn't send any of these. I don't know this guy."
"Where did you attend college?"
"UCLA."
"When did you graduate?"
"Almost two years ago."
"Have you ever used any other alias, Miss Kendall?" he asks.
My heart stops. I don't want to answer this question. I don't.
"Miss Kendall?"
"I-I modeled as Ivy Wade," I whisper.
"How long ago?"
"I haven't modeled in three years."
"Why did you quit?"
"My dad died."
"Have you used the alias since?"
"No."
Detective Lewis is quiet for a moment.
"I didn't do this, Detective Lewis. I didn't date this guy or tell him to kill himself. I don't even know him!" I wring my hands together again before wrapping my arms around myself, fighting off a shiver. I don't know if he believes me or not, and I'm suddenly terrified to find out.
He sighs and switches off the tape recorder.
We sit in silence for several seconds.
"At this point, we don't have any evidence suggesting that Mr. Clark followed through on his threats, but I would advise you to retain a good criminal defense lawyer, Miss Kendall."
"I don't understand."
"The phone used to send these messages is registered under your name and address, and your photographs are included in the messages. If Mr. Clark isn't found safe and sound, you're going to have a lot of explaining to do."
"W-what does that mean?"
He holds my gaze. "It means you can and will be charged with manslaughter if he took that leap from the bridge."
Oh my god.
This isn't happening. It can't be.
My breath rattles in my chest in a painful wheeze. I feel like my throat is closing up on me, terror shrinking it. I don't even jaywalk! Now I'm going to be charged with murder? I'm dreaming. I have to be dreaming.
I can't breathe.
Why can't I breathe?
"Breathe, Miss Kendall," Detective Lewis murmurs, leaning forward. Concern flits through his gray eyes, but the hard expression on his face doesn't soften much.
Does he think I told this kid to kill himself? That I stole from him and broke his heart?
"Ivy, you need to breathe," he says, climbing to his feet. He circles around the small table to me and places his hand on my back. Even through my clothing, the heat of his hand sears me. He pushes me forward with a gentle pressure, until my head is between my knees.
I concentrate on my breathing. In and out. In and out. Tears threaten to spill, but I don't let them.
Little by little, the tightness in my chest eases, allowing me to take a deep breath. I expect Detective Lewis to move his hand, but he doesn't. He keeps it on my shoulder. I think he's trying to comfort me. Would he do that if he thought I was capable of being so heartless and cruel? Would he flirt with me like he did last night and the night before?
I don't know.
Slowly, I straighten in my chair. I don’t feel better at all, but at least I can breathe again.
I think his hand tightens on my shoulder for a brief instant before he moves away from me.
He doesn't reclaim his seat, instead standing beside me. I don't even know him, but I want to lean into him, let him hold me together and tell me this isn't happening. That it's just a nightmare. But I can't do that, and he can't tell me that. Why would he when he doesn't even know me?
"Someone stole my identity," I whisper. That has to be it. Someone found pictures of me and used them and my name to start a relationship with Rory. It's happened before―well, the using my pictures part, anyway. I'm not sure about the starting a relationship part, but there is no other explanation.
Detective Lewis eyes me for a moment, his expression as businesslike as it has been all day long, and then he gathers up his folder. "Come on, I'll take you home," he says.
I don't know if he believes me or not.
Why does that scare me so much?
"Thank you for the ride," I whisper, my throat raw as we pull up in front of my building. Unlatching my seatbelt with one hand, I reach for the door handle with the other. I feel numb and cold, my insides frozen solid. His scent is all over his Land Rover, and it's not helping to calm me any. If anything, smelling him, having him seated right next to me, his gaze fixated on the road ahead, makes me even more anxious.
I desperately want to ask him if he believes me, but I don't.
"You're welcome," he murmurs, still not looking at me.
I climb from the vehicle, tears welling in my eyes again. Don't cry, I chant to myself. Not yet.
"Miss Kendall," he says as I start to shut the door.
I turn to find his gaze on me, his expression shuttered.
"Don't leave town for a while," he says. "We'll have more questions for you."
Despite my best efforts, a single tear slips down my cheek. I hurriedly brush it away. His gaze softens a little, his gray eyes flickering across my face. He looks like he wants to say something, but I don't give him the chance. I have to get out of here.
"Thanks again," I mumble and slam the door before spinning on my heel and darting inside my building. Instead of waiting for the ancient elevator, I race up the stairs, taking them two at a time all the way up to the fourth floor. Keeping my head down, I speed walk to my door, the worn Oriental-styled runner under my feet blurring. Somehow, I make it to my apartment without any of my neighbors stopping me.
Once inside, I latch the door and then slide down the wall. With my back against the cool wood, I give in to the tears. They come in gasping heaves and pained whimpers. I've never been in trouble in my entire life. I don't understand why this is happening to me, or who would do this to me. Why would anyone do something so awful to another person?
Did Rory kill himself, thinking I'd used him and then told him to die?
I don't even know him, but the thought of him viewing me as that sort of person kills me.
And then I get pissed off. How dare someone use my identity to destroy a life? Brushing my tears away, I climb to my feet and start to pace in angry circles.
I need to find out who did this.
Where do I start?
I need Erin's advice. She'll know what to do.
Grabbing my phone off the charger, I sink down onto the sofa and kick my shoes off before dialing her number.
It rings twice.
"Wassup? It's Erin. If you reached this message, you already know I'm not going to listen to your voicemail. Text me!"
"Hey, it's me," I say after the bee
p anyway. "I need your help. Please call me as soon as you get this."
I end the call and hesitate for a moment before firing off a text telling her I need her help.
And then I settle down to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do.
chapter four
mad world
"Miss Kendall, please report to the Principal's office. Miss Kendall, please report to the Principal's office."
Tipping my head back, I close my eyes and sigh. It's barely seven o'clock in the morning, and my week is already off to a bad start. This isn't going to make it any better. I was up before the sun this morning, trying to figure out how I'm going to afford a lawyer. The sad reality is that I can't. Even if I worked in the bars every night, it wouldn't be possible. I barely have two-thousand dollars in savings. Everything else goes to paying off loans and my dad's medical bills, and paying my bills.
I drop a stack of worksheets on my desk for the substitute and then straighten my cream blouse before heading toward Bryan's office.
Eloise glances up from the phone call she's on and waves me in. "He's waiting," she mouths.
"Thank you."
Taking a deep breath, I tap on Bryan's open door.
"Ivy, come in," he says, looking up from the newspaper in front of him.
"Morning," I mumble and push the door closed before dropping into the chair across from him.
He cocks his head to the side, frowning as he folds up his newspaper and sets it aside. "You look like shit."
"I didn't sleep well," I say, smoothing my navy blue skirt. I tossed and turned all night, fighting the urge to fire up my laptop and begin searching. I called Erin twice more, but she didn't answer and hasn't called me back yet. Service is spotty at the lake, so hopefully she'll make a run into town sometime today and get my S.O.S. messages.
Bryan eyes me for a moment and then sits back in his chair. "Talk to me," he says.
I open my mouth and then close it again. Where do I even start?
"Is this about the detective?" he asks when I still haven't said anything several moments later.
"He thinks I've been having an online relationship with that missing college student," I blurt, squeezing my eyes closed. "Yesterday, he took me in and showed me a bunch of messages between the kid and someone pretending to be me." I still can't believe this is actually happening to me. It seems so implausible. Will anyone believe me? Popping my eyes open, I focus on Bryan. "I didn't do this, Bryan."
All Over You (All Falls Down #3) Page 4