Page 28 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Chapter twenty-two

M y thin cotton pajamas offer little protection against the uncomfortable conditions of an NYPD interrogation room.

The scratched plastic chair continuously bites into my thighs, no matter how I shift or turn—and the temperature is just a touch too cold to adjust to.

I can’t be certain how long I’m left waiting, only that by the time the detectives enter, my skin is mottled with purple blotches and the backs of my thighs have indents.

“Ms. Davis,” bellows the first officer through the door. “Thank you for waiting. I’m Detective Dalton.” The deep quality of his voice carries authority—and certainly suits his massive, rounded frame—but when he gets close enough to shake my hand, I’m struck by just how young he is.

He can’t be any older than I am, I think, taking note of his pale, pudgy cheeks.

But there’s no sign of youthful inexperience in Detective Dalton’s firm handshake or the scrutiny of his brown eyes. “This is Detective Bryant,” he nods, and another man—slender, dark-skinned, and shorter than me—hastily shakes my hand.

“Uh, nice to meet you,” I say, but it comes out like a hoarse croak. Probably a side-effect from the dry, artificial chill of the interrogation room.

“Would you like a cup of water?” Detective Bryant asks me.

It’s only my general distrust of law enforcement that keeps me from nodding—as much as my parched throat protests.

Both men take seats in the dark swivel chairs on the other side of the bolted table, and I run my fingers over my bare arms, envious of their dark, long-sleeved suits.

Would it kill them to turn the thermostat up?

Bryant has a thin manila folder he passes over to Dalton, who flips it open and begins wordlessly scanning the contents.

I fidget with the empty handcuff slots on the table.

After all the time I’ve already spent in this room, restless and reeling, the silence is nearly unbearable.

Hopefully, they’ll have fewer questions than the officer on the scene did.

Finally, Dalton looks up from the file. “What was your relationship to Thomas Palmer?”

The question catches me off guard—as well as the use of Tom’s full name—but I clear my throat. “I’d say we were friends.”

At least, he called me a friend last night.

The sadness that accompanies the thought is fleeting—and I try not to linger on it.

Not right now.

“Define ‘friends,’” Detective Dalton orders.

“Well, we didn’t know each other very well,” I say honestly. “Or very long. He approached me at a coffee shop and asked for my number. We texted casually, and we hung out once, but that was pretty much the extent of it.”

“He asked for your number,” Dalton clarifies. “In a romantic context?”

“Yes, I—”

“So, you were dating then.”

I blink.

Is he this blunt with every witness?

I shake my head. “I mean, I wouldn’t say—”

“But he was pursuing you romantically,” Dalton cuts in again. “Which means the nature of your relationship was not friendly, it was romantic.”

There’s nothing forgiving in Dalton’s steely gaze, and my brows furrow with confusion.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I try to keep my voice measured.

“I’m a little thrown off by the questions.

The officer who escorted me to the precinct said I was just here to give a detailed witness statement about Tom’s…

” The word gets clogged in the back of my throat. “…death.”

Unwillingly, my mind flashes back to this morning: Tom’s limp body on the tile. His eyes, glassy and lifeless. His mouth parted, a dribble of spit dried to his cheek.

I’ve got perfect, high-definition recollection of that— though everything else is still a little foggy. I don’t remember turning off the kitchen faucet. Or calling 911. Or escorting the paramedics inside. Or just about anything else up until my escort to the station.

“We are taking your statement.” It’s Detective Bryant who answers me. His tone isn’t nearly as sharp as Dalton’s. “We just need to make sure we’ve got as close to a full, unbiased picture as possible.”

I offer Bryant— good cop, it seems—the faintest smile. “And I promise you have my full cooperation however I can help,” I rub a hand down my face. “It’s just been a very long twenty-four hours, and I’d really like to get home and change. Shower. Feed my cat.”

LuAnne probably fed Toby hours ago, but I’m hoping the mention of a helpless living creature depending on me might spur more compassion than I’m currently getting.

I’ll owe Toby two boxes of treats if this works.

Unfortunately, Dalton doesn’t appear to be swayed. “Well, our apologies,” he sneers. “We’d hate to make your friend’s death inconvenient for you.”

I rear back. “That’s not—”

“Well, it was implied, wasn’t it?”

Bryant stretches a hand over the table before I can retort. “We do appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Davis,” he says. “And the sooner we get to the bottom of what happened, the sooner we can move onto what’s next.”

It doesn’t escape my notice that he didn’t mention home being my next step—but Dalton moves on before I can give the comment too much thought. “How did you end up at Thomas Palmer’s apartment last night?”

I swallow, equipped with the vague answer I already gave the officer at the scene. “I had a fight with a friend, and I wasn’t sure where to go, so I texted Tom. He was kind enough to let me crash on his couch.”

“And did you?” Dalton prompts.

“Did I what?”

“Did you crash on the couch?”

I don’t mean to scoff. “Of course.”

Dalton lifts a brow. “Well, there’s no need to act like a puritan about it. By your own admission, you were dating. It’s a natural assumption.”

“We weren’t—”

“Moving on,” Dalton cuts me off. Again.

I take a deep breath, trying to curb my irritation.

Just answer the questions, Poppy.

And then you can go home and deal with the rest of your life.

“According to your initial statement at the scene,” Dalton says, and it’s almost a relief that his eyes are on the file, not me. “You said you found Thomas Palmer shortly after you woke up.”

My throat tightens. “I heard the water running in the kitchen. I thought he was just doing dishes or something, but obviously—”

Dalton’s eyes narrow. “So, just to clarify: you were on the couch in the…living room?”

I nod.

“And the kitchen,” he says. “Is…what? Maybe ten feet away—if that?”

“Uh, I guess.”

“So, a man collapses and dies less than ten feet from you, and you don’t wake up?” Dalton says bluntly. “You don’t hear him fall? You don’t hear him call for help?”

I feel like a fish floundering for air the way my mouth drops open. “I mean, I don’t know. I was exhausted last night, so—”

“Too exhausted to hear a man die. Understood.” The click of his pen makes me flinch. “So, you walk in, you find Thomas Palmer non-responsive on the floor, and you call the police.”

I nod.

His eyes flicker up to me. “And did you, at any point in time, attempt CPR or any other attempt at resuscitation?”

My forehead creases. “Uh, no. Not that I remember.”

“Why not?”

I shift in my seat. “He was…dead. I could tell he was dead.”

“How do you know?” Dalton leans forward, hands clasped together on the table.

That glassy stare plays behind my eyes. “I mean, I could just tell there was…nothing there.”

He peers down at the file again, brows knit together. “Oh, I must’ve missed that in the file.”

“What do you mean?”

“The part about you being a licensed medical professional,” he answers sharply. “Seeing as those are the only people qualified to declare people dead.”

My jaw ticks.

Does he really need to misinterpret every single thing I say?

I take a deep breath. “Alright, I didn’t know. But I thought he was dead, and regardless, the paramedics at the scene came to the same conclusion.”

Dalton makes a clicking noise with his tongue. “Right, but that was more than ten minutes after you called 911.” He grabs a pen from his suit pocket.

I run a frustrated hand through my hair. “Well, as you pointed out, I’m not a medical professional. I haven’t been CPR-certified since, like, middle school. Would it have made any—”

Dalton pauses his scribbling long enough to snap, “I’m not interested in hypotheticals.

I just want to make sure the report reflects that you, the first person to find Thomas Palmer unresponsive, did not attempt any form of resuscitation in the twelve minutes prior to the EMTs arriving on the scene. ”

My teeth grind.

Just get through the interview, Poppy. They can’t have that many questions.

But they do.

Dalton seems determined to examine every answer I give through the lens of suspicion, while Bryant occasionally chimes in, usually to temper his partner’s hostile attitude.

“And you don’t remember anything else?” Dalton asks. “No neighbors, no other friends stopping by to ‘crash on the couch’?”

The headache throbbing behind my eyes is partially dehydration, and partially muscle tension from resisting the urge to leap over the table and throttle Dalton’s neck. “Again…no. I don’t remember anyone else.”

He clicks his pen. “So, you were the only person alone with Palmer in the…eight hours leading up to his death?”

Every word out of Dalton’s mouth is laced with skepticism, but this feels particularly overt—and a sense of paranoia itches beneath my skin. “Yes.”

He records my answer, and I use the lapse of silence to ask a question of my own.

“I know it’s probably too early to determine, but is there a suspected cause of death?

I heard one of the paramedics on the scene mention a possible heart attack.

Or stroke.” I scratch the back of my neck.

“Tom never mentioned having any health issues, so I don’t know…

but maybe his close friends or family would. ”

And will they be getting the Law & Order Suspect special too?

The thought of Janie receiving the same third-degree I am is the first trace of amusement I’ve had all morning.

The detectives share another look that makes me feel like I’m the one missing answers here.

Bryant leans back, his expression cool. “The medical examiner hasn’t determined the official cause of death yet,” he tells me.

“But preliminary suggests cardiac arrest may have been secondary to an overdose.”

My head spins. “An overdose? Like a drug overdose?”

He nods.

A shallow breath escapes me. “Oh, that’s…I mean, I had no idea. He never mentioned struggling with addiction, and I didn’t see any signs…not that I was really around long enough to see them.” Then, more hesitantly, I ask, “Was something found?”

Dalton scoffs. “That’s none of your business.”

Bryant’s smile is tight-lipped. “We’re checking into a few things.”

In my periphery, Dalton watches me like a hawk waiting to swoop in and pounce. “Certainly not the traditional presentation though. Likely other factors at play here.”

I still. “Other factors?”

“We don’t know anything right now,” Bryant assures me, but his pursed lips and flat expression say otherwise. “Until cause of death is determined, we need to explore every possibility. Accidental.” He drums his fingers on the table. “Non-accidental.”

My throat goes bone dry. “You think he did it…on purpose?”

It’s only the slight shake of Dalton’s head that keeps me from spiraling.

“Okay…” My forehead creases. “If you don’t think it was accidental and you don’t think he did it on purpose, what’re you…”

Oh.

Oh.

My eyes widen. “You think this was foul play? Like someone killed him?”

For once, Dalton is completely silent, the sound of his pen scraping against the page like nails on a chalkboard.

I shake my head. “But nobody else was there. It was just him and—”

And then I stop talking.

The blood pounds in my ears.

The room flickers in and out of focus. “You think I did this?”

Without a word, Bryant’s eyes flicker down to the file in Dalton’s hands.

And Dalton— fucking Dalton—just keeps taking notes.

Panic consumes me.

A little voice in the back of my head screams at me to shut up, but I can’t help myself as I lean forward, eyes wild. “You can’t seriously think I did this,” I plead. “I would never do this—hell, I don’t even know how this happened in the first place.”

Bryant looks up at me again—formal and detached. “As I said, we’re exploring every possibility. In the meantime though, I’d make other arrangements for your cat.”