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His gaze flicks up to mine, reproachful. “She hung herself.”

“My god.”

Then, the image of what I saw when I leaned against the mother cedar flashes across my eyes.

A dark-haired girl in a nightgown, hanging from a tree, her neck broken.

“What was she wearing?” I ask, my voice cracking with fear.

He frowns. “Why?”

“I just want to know,” I say quietly. “When did it happen? In the night?”

The line between his brows deepens. “Yes, in the night. Looped the noose off the branch of a strong cedar.” Each word is a knife to my gut, twisting my reality. “Ms. Shetty was found in her nightgown by Handyman Keith. He was in hysterics, poor guy. Not sure he’s ever really recovered. He’s someone who should have counseling, but he’s as stubborn as a mule.”

I let the information sink in, falling through my skin like melting snow. I stare into my coffee, a black hole.

Nightgown.

Broken.

The girl in the hallway.

“She had dark hair, didn’t she?” I whisper.

He doesn’t say anything, and when I look up at him, he’s staring at me with an expression of quiet horror. That’s a look you never want to see on a psychologist.

“Why do you ask?” he asks, his voice strained.

I finish the dregs of my coffee, though it will only make my racing heart worse. “Just wondering,” I eventually say, putting the empty mug down.

He studies me for a moment, then plucks the empty mug from the table and gets up, stepping up around to the kitchen behind me. “You’re lying to me,” he says calmly as he puts the mug under the Keurig. “As punishment, I’m making you breakfast, and you have to eat it.”

I don’t protest about either one. I really don’t want to lie. He already thinks I’m a special case anyway.

Still, I don’t explain further. I start nervously picking at the tape at the corner of the table and stare at a painting on the wall, a famous painting of a bald eagle by Robert Bateman. I’ve seenit so many times before, and yet it still captures my attention. The eagle, posed in a haunting cry as it perches at the top of a dead tree, wings partially spread, the mist and forest a grey cloak behind it.

The Keurig whirs on, breaking the silence, while Kincaid starts taking stuff out of his fridge, placing it on the counter. I hear the click of a propane stove.

When the coffee is done, he puts the full mug in front of me and sits back down. His sleeves are rolled up now to his forearms, showing the end of his tattoo. Up close, I can clearly see the feathers.

“Thank you,” I say, holding up the mug. I nod at his tattoo. “A raven?”

“Are you trying to get my shirt off?” he muses.

Don’t say yes. Don’t say yes.

“Maybe.”

Damnit, Sydney.

He smirks. “I’ll take my shirt off if you tell me why you asked about Farida’s hair.”

“That’s extortion.”

“Take it or leave it.”

I watch him for a moment, trying to read him at a deeper level, but as usual, his eyes hold so much back. Is he serious about any of this? Are we flirting? Is he aware that this whole exchange would be considered highly inappropriate, especially since he knows why I lost my scholarship?