“You don’t have to answer that.”

“Your response was, ‘Seriously bro. Don’t fuck with me.’ Were you threatening Jay?”

“You don’t have to—”

“Because Jay’s last text was to Tripp,” Teddy leans in, “and it was about you.”

A flicker of something across Michael’s face—anger? surprise?—but it’s replaced by the smug and slightly bored expression he’s worn since we brought him in. I suck in my breath. Teddy waits. Oliver looks like he’s dying to say something—I can see his left foot shaking furiously against his chair leg—but he keeps his mouth shut.

After a minute of silence, Michael breaks. “What did he say?”

“You don’t know?”

He leans toward Teddy. “I wouldn’t be asking, if I knew.”

Teddy sits back and observes him from across the table.

“He said, ‘Don’t tell Mike.’”

“That’s it?” Michael laughs.

“Any idea what that’s about?”

“God—knowing Jay, he probably booked a mansion for spring formal or a live gator for next year’s Florida game.”

“So you think it’s about money.”

“It always is.”

“Right.” Teddy manages not to sound disappointed, but some of the tight energy holding up his shoulders drops. “What can you tell us about Katie Coleman?”

“She’s Kap-O’s dream girl. She’s hot. Sweet, but always down for a good time.”

Oliver leans in. “You and the dream girl, huh?”

Michael’s eyes skim his face. No matter how hard Oliver tries, he’s not going to get on Michael’s good side. Michael’s looking at him like something he found on the bottom of his shoe.

“Not interested,” he says. “But she came to all our parties. Made sure her friends came as well.”

“How long had she and Jay been together?”

For a split second, Michael hesitates. He knows, I think. But then he straightens. “They weren’t.”

“We have a witness who says otherwise.”

“Jay and Katie?” Michael pretends to ponder it. “There’s no way to keep something like that a secret. If they were together, everyone would have known.” He’s looking at the two-way mirror. Looking through it almost—to me.

His lawyer is shuffling papers. “If that’s all…”

I’m ducking out of the observation gallery when I almost collide with Michael in the hall. He doesn’t look like he’s just spent two hours in the shitty interview room, doesn’t look disheveled or remotely worried. His lawyer trails behind him, snapping various clasps on his briefcase. As I shove my way past, Michael leans toward me and places his hand on my arm.

“You and your partner should be careful,” he says.

A current runs from his fingers through my body. I rip my sleeve away.

His lawyer catches up with us, and Michael gestures to the glass front door and the tea-colored puddles deepening in the parking lot with his eyebrows raised.