All Over You (All Falls Down #3) (4 page)

Well…crap.

chapter three

numb

I cannot believe Detective Lewis is the guy I've been lusting after for the last two days! I accused him of stalking me. And told him to grow a pair. Wrapping my arms around myself, I fight the urge to whimper like a little girl as I remember also calling him a whore and telling him that I was naked.

How humiliating.

I want to go home and hide under the covers. Except I can't. I'm stuck in an interview room in a tank top and compression shorts, waiting for the sexiest detective I've ever met to come and ask me questions about a kid I don't know if I've ever even met.

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.

Rory: 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.