CHAPTER 238

WINTER 

The door opened.

A tall man stepped inside, impeccably dressed in a dark suit that looked tailored to perfection. His tie was razor-straight, his shoes polished to a gleam that caught the light. 

Broad-shouldered and lean, he carried himself with a composure that was both effortless and commanding. 

His dark hair was neatly combed back, not a strand out of place, and his sharp jawline only added to the severity of his presence. 

When his eyes swept the room—cool, assessing, unwavering—it was with the kind of quiet authority that made everyone instinctively straighten in their seats. 

Every movement was deliberate, professional to the point of intimidation.

His gaze swept over us, assessing, before landing on me.

“Apologies for the delay,” he said, his tone even but carrying the unmistakable authority of someone used to commanding a room. 

He set his briefcase on the table with deliberate precision and looked each detective in the eye, one after the other, as though measuring their competence. 

“David Mercer,” he said evenly, his tone clipped but authoritative. 

“Legal counsel for Mr. Royal, Ms. Thompson, and the others present.”

The words hit me like a lifeline. 

Relief flooded me, warm and overwhelming, and I clutched Zion's hand. 

He didn’t bother sitting right away, letting the silence stretch as his gaze lingered on Roxy Anne, then shifted to Muiz and Martin. 

Calm, unhurried, but with the clear message that he was assessing them as much as they were him.

Roxy Anne's brow lifted slightly, but her voice remained razor-sharp. 

"Counsel. I wasn't aware your clients had retained representation. Are you aware of the nature of our investigation?"

"Yes," Mercer said evenly, eyes scanning the room, unflinching. 

Then they rested on me for a brief, grounding moment. 

“I am aware,” Mercer replied evenly, his voice carrying the kind of calm that was more unsettling than raised volume. 

“And while I respect your procedure, I am also aware that my clients—Winter Thompson, Zion Royal, Harry Simmons, Ronald Landon, and Clark Hayes—are being detained here without probable cause. I am here to ensure their rights are protected. So I advise you to release them immediately. If you have further questions, they can be asked in a proper setting—at their homes, through scheduled appointments—not here, in an interrogation room, as though they are criminals.”

I let out a shaky breath, pressing closer to Zion. 

His arm tightened slightly around my shoulders, grounding me, and for the first time in hours, I felt a flicker of safety.

Roxy Anne didn’t relent. 

Her posture was sharp, deliberate, almost predatory. 

She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at her lips—a mixture of disdain and calculated control.

“With all due respect, Mr. Mercer,” she began, voice calm but cutting, 

“Your clients aren’t being treated like criminals—they’re being treated like individuals who may have involvement in an ongoing homicide investigation.”

Mercer’s reply was instant, his tone sharp enough to silence the hum of the fluorescent lights.

“Correction, Detective. They are being detained without sufficient cause, in an interrogation room meant for suspects. That alone borders on a violation of their rights. If you had evidence capable of standing up in court, we wouldn’t be having this conversation—you’d already have them booked. So spare me the theatrics.”

Roxy Anne’s lips curved, not into a smile but something far colder—measured, practised. She leaned forward just enough to close the space between authority and defiance.

“Mr. Mercer, I don’t deal in theatrics. I deal in facts. And the fact is, this isn’t a courtroom—it’s an active investigation. You’re right, your clients haven’t been booked, because we’re still working through the evidence. But don’t confuse caution for weakness. We brought them here because what we have warrants questions. And if protecting the integrity of an ongoing homicide investigation makes you uncomfortable, then perhaps you should ask why your clients keep appearing in the middle of every piece of evidence we uncover. Detention for questioning during an active homicide investigation is well within protocol, particularly when we’re looking at evidence that raises red flags.”

I swallowed hard, my stomach twisting. 

She tapped the folder in front of her, her expression unyielding.

“If I had enough to book your clients, I would. But if I had nothing at all, they wouldn’t be here. Don’t mistake restraint for weakness. This isn’t about theatrics—it’s about following leads where they go. And right now, they go straight to Ms. Thompson’s doorstep.”

Mercer didn’t blink. 

He sat back, unhurried, his expression unreadable as he adjusted his cufflink with deliberate calm before speaking.

“Then let’s not dance around it, Detective. If you believe you have grounds, show me exactly what evidence you think justifies holding them here. Not vague red flags. Not insinuations. Evidence. Tangible, admissible, and sufficient.”

His gaze held hers, steady, carrying the weight of someone who had made entire courtrooms falter.

“Because until you place it on this table, what I see are college students pulled into an interrogation room based on circumstantial speculation. And speculation is not probable cause"

Roxy Anne didn’t flinch under Mercer’s stare. 

Instead, she reached for the folder sitting on the edge of the table and flipped it open with a practised flick, the sound sharp in the silence.

“Very well,” she said smoothly, though her tone carried an edge of challenge. 

“You want evidence? Let’s review.”

She opened the folder slowly, deliberately, as if savouring the tension in the room. 

“This—” she tapped the glossy image of the mangled, lifeless cat, carefully sealed in a crime-scene photograph sleeve, 

“—was left on Ms. Thompson’s doorstep inside a cardboard box. According to her statement, it was delivered by a supposed stalker.”

She paused, letting the words hang, her eyes scanning the group with calculated sharpness.

“She—Ms. Thompson—provided Detective Martin and Detective Muiz with a list of potential suspects she feared could be stalking her. The top name on that list? ‘Ethan Wilde.’" 

Her voice dropped slightly, heavy with implication. 

“The same Ethan Wilde who is now dead. Coincidence? Possibly—but highly suspicious.”

She slid the next photograph across the table, this one zoomed in on a single strand of hair, sealed within a plastic evidence sleeve. The lab results were neatly printed beneath.

“…inside that box, detectives recovered this: a single strand of Ms. Thompson’s hair. The DNA results are conclusive—it is hers. How it ended up there remains unexplained, but it undeniably places her name at the centre of this investigation.”

Her gaze sharpened, assessing every reaction in the room.

“And yes, Mr. Mercer, under these circumstances, it constitutes probable cause. Or at the very least, it raises serious suspicion. Whether this ‘stalker’ narrative is genuine—or an elaborate hoax to mislead us and cover up something far more sinister—is unclear. But as far as the law is concerned, the appearance of her hair in that box is enough to justify further questioning.”

A hoax?

Seriously.

I pressed my palms to the table, trying to stop my fingers from trembling. The images—the cat, the box, the hair—they weren’t just evidence. 

They were a trap. 

A setup. 

Someone had gone to terrifying lengths to make it look like I was involved, like I had lured Ethan, like I had done… that.

Roxy leaned back, folding her arms, watching Mercer closely as though daring him to dismiss what she had just laid out.

“Circumstantial? Maybe. But coincidence? Hardly. That’s why they’re here.”

One by one, she laid the documents onto the table.

“These are emails sent from Ms. Thompson’s account, dated twenty-four days ago, addressed to Ethan Wilde. In it, she references being ‘very close to him’ and directly asks for his location to meet. Based on the tone and wording, it appears they had some kind of relationship. You’ll note the metadata has been verified—it did originate from her account.”

Roxy Anne leaned back slightly, her eyes narrowing. 

“Taken together—the email, the photograph, the lab results—they form the basis of probable cause in this investigation. We are obligated to treat these matters seriously and proceed accordingly.”

Mercer flicked through the email, his expression bored, almost dismissive. He read it carefully, then raised an eyebrow.

“Hmm.” 

He let the silence stretch, turning the folder in his hands like a prop. 

“And you believe this proves she committed murder?” Mercer’s voice was steady, measured, the sarcasm sharper than any raised tone.

Roxy Anne’s eyes lifted, her tone precise, almost clinical. 

“At this point, Ms. Thompson is our primary person of interest. According to the content of those emails,” she continued, 

“As I mentioned, she appeared unusually close to the Vic, a level of familiarity we cannot ignore. It doesn’t prove guilt, but it certainly places her at the centre of our investigation.”

Every fibre of my being screamed that this wasn’t real, that someone was playing a cruel, calculated game—but it was impossible to ignore how convincing it looked.

Zion’s hands slammed onto the table, rattling the papers. His voice was low, rough, and dangerous, vibrating with barely restrained fury.

“Are you fucking kidding me? ‘Being close’ to him? Surviving his bullshit doesn’t count? He tried to rape her! And now you think that because some asshole can send an email from our house, she’s responsible? Fuck that. She didn’t ask for him to get hurt, she didn’t lure him anywhere, and she sure as hell didn’t kill him!”

He jabbed a finger toward Roxy Anne, eyes dark with disbelief, his chest heaving.

“Open your fucking eyes—this isn’t her doing. You’re pointing fingers at the wrong person!”

Roxy Anne’s gaze sharpened, and she leaned back slightly, her tone controlled but icy.

“Mr Royal,” she said, her voice smooth but cutting, 

“We are conducting an investigation based on evidence. One more outburst from you, and I will have you detained for obstruction. Unless you can explain how these details magically fabricated themselves, I suggest you stop lecturing us on procedure and allow us to do our jobs.”

Her eyes flicked to me briefly, cold and assessing, before returning to Zion. She let a pause stretch for just a heartbeat, the edge in her tone unmistakable.

“Temper the theatrics. Outbursts aren’t going to change the facts on this table.”

Mercer’s dark eyes flicked to Zion, calm but commanding.

“Mr. Royal,” he said smoothly, his tone leaving no room for argument,

“I understand your concerns—and I share them—but this is not the way to address an investigative team. You will let them present their information without interruption. You and your friends are entitled to your rights, but that does not include derailing the process with anger.”

He let his gaze sweep slowly across the group—I pressed close to Zion, visibly tense but holding on; Harry and Ro exchanged tight, frustrated glances; Clark leaned back, arms crossed, masking disbelief behind sarcasm; even Zion’s fury was tempered under the weight of Mercer’s presence.

“Everyone here,” Mercer continued, his voice steady, precise, 

“deserves clarity and respect, not assumptions or accusations based on incomplete information. Let’s allow the investigation to proceed properly. Then we can address questions, concerns, and any discrepancies calmly and with full evidence.”

Roxy Anne’s lips pressed into a thin line, her tone sharp. 

“With all due respect, Mr. Mercer, we still have a responsibility to protect the integrity of the investigation. These are serious allegations, and we cannot simply release individuals who are potential suspects—”

Mercer raised a hand, stopping her mid-sentence. His eyes glinted with controlled impatience, the slightest lift of his brow conveying both authority and warning.

“Detective,” he said, voice calm but absolute, 

“I appreciate your diligence, but your role is to investigate, not to assume guilt. Speculation and warnings cannot substitute for concrete evidence. Allow me to review this material thoroughly,” he said, gesturing to the documents spread across the table, 

“before anyone takes any action that could unjustly detain my clients.”

Turning slightly, his gaze swept over all of us again—before landing back on the detectives. 

“We will review this evidence objectively. Anything less is a violation of rights and procedure, and I assure you, I will not allow it.”

The weight in the room was still suffocating, but for the first time in hours, a spark of relief flared inside me. Mercer wasn’t just another voice in the chaos; he was a shield, a line of authority I could cling to while the world threatened to spin entirely out of control.