CHAPTER 239

**WINTER**

His dark eyes swept over the detectives, calm but precise, as he leaned against the table's edge. 

“Let me review the evidence you claim justifies keeping my clients here,” Mercer said, calm but commanding. 

His dark eyes flicked over the documents laid out on the table—printed emails, the photos of the mutilated cat, the lab results showing a strand of my hair in the box. He picked up the folders with deliberate precision, his movements controlled, almost predatory in their focus.

I felt myself lean closer to Zion, clutching his sleeve. 

Every muscle in his body was taut, coiled with the same barely contained rage I could feel radiating off him. 

But Mercer's presence was like a shield; his calm professionalism created a bubble of reason around us.

He flipped through the papers slowly, letting his gaze linger on each item, as though weighing them, testing their credibility without a word. 

The detectives’ impatience was palpable, Roxy Anne tapping her pen against the table with increasing sharpness.

He set the evidence down neatly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked up at Roxy Anne. 

“So, to summarise,” Mercer said, his tone measured, sharp, 

“You are detaining five adults in an interrogation room solely based on an email and a single strand of hair?”

A faint, almost imperceptible curve of a smile tugged at his lips, but it carried an unmistakable edge, cold and controlled.

Roxy Anne’s jaw tightened, but Mercer remained unfazed. 

He leaned back slightly, letting the folder of reports fall closed with deliberate casualness, as if the documents were trivial.

“I fail to see any evidence that directly implicates my client in this crime,” he continued, each word deliberate, professional, and sharp. 

“A box. Some emails. No confession, no eyewitness testimony, no forensic evidence tying Winter Thompson personally to these communications. The only supposed ‘link’ you’ve presented is that she cared for the stray cat in question—hardly incriminating, uofless you’re suggesting she mutilated the very animal she was feeding and sheltering.

And beyond today—when my clients arrived at the crime scene—you have no evidence whatsoever placing them there before. Nothing that establishes involvement, intent, or presence."

Mercer’s dark eyes didn’t leave the detectives as he leaned forward slightly, his tone calm but cutting.

“And regarding this strand of hair,” he began, flipping the folder open with a precise motion,

"Allow me to clarify something: I’ve been informed this cat was a stray that Ms. Thompson cared for daily. It’s entirely plausible—indeed, expected—that her hair could have naturally transferred onto the animal over time. Yet you appear to be suggesting that the presence of this hair indicates she intentionally harmed the animal. Is that correct?”

He let the question hang in the air, letting the weight of it settle, his gaze unwavering, measured, commanding.

“This is a serious accusation,” he continued, his voice steady, professional, with just the faintest edge of steel. 

“One that demands evidence, not conjecture. A strand of hair alone does not constitute proof of a crime, nor does it justify detaining my clients in this manner.”

He let his gaze sweep over the detectives, steady and unyielding, before continuing.

“You have no time stamps placing Ms. Thompson at the keyboard to compose or send an email to the deceased. You have no verified forensic chain proving that the strand of hair wasn’t transferred through innocent, secondary contact. And unless you can produce a sworn statement or credible witness placing any of these students at or near the scene at the actual time of Ethan Wilde’s death, then you do not have probable cause. What you do have, detectives, is a witch hunt dressed up in paperwork.”

He sat back, smooth and deliberate, as though the interrogation room were his office.

“So let me be perfectly clear. My clients will not be answering another question in this room. If you want to speak with them, you’ll do it through me, and you’ll do it at their homes—not under fluorescent lights, not surrounded by suspicion, and certainly not in a setup meant to intimidate them.”

Roxy’s eyes flickered to him, her voice calm but sharp. 

“The emails are evidence, Mr. Mercer. They link your client to the suspect’s location and communications. That alone—”

Mercer set the folder down, raising a hand to cut her off. 

“Alone, it links to nothing. It suggests someone could have used her account. It does not prove intent, nor presence, nor guilt. Do you have anything tying my clients directly to the murder? No? Then release them. Now.”

The room went quiet. Even the overhead lights seemed to hang in tension as he stared down Roxy Anne and Martin, unwavering.

I felt a rush of relief, but my chest still pounded. 

Clark exhaled slowly, hand still tight around mine, muttering low under his breath, 

“Finally… someone who sees reason.”

Roxy Anne’s brow didn’t falter. Her voice was precise, edged with authority. 

“Mr. Mercer, we have evidence that gives us probable cause to detain your clients. It’s not circumstantial—it’s physical evidence. The law allows us to hold them while we investigate further.”

Mercer didn’t flinch.

If anything, the faintest ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth as he set the folder of reports back on the table, deliberately neat.

“Probable cause?” His voice was calm, clipped, but carried enough edge to slice through the room.

“Detective, what you have are circumstances, not proof. An email header and a strand of hair do not amount to guilt—they amount to a setup. And frankly, the smell of it is all over this case. A mutilated animal left in a box, an email trail pointing back to my client, her hair conveniently found in the evidence—every piece is too neat, too convenient, as if someone gift-wrapped it for you. To me, it reeks of orchestration, not investigation.”

The silence pressed down, heavy and brittle, until Harry leaned in and murmured something against Mercer’s ear.

Mercer’s jaw tightened. He gave a curt nod, then lifted his gaze to Martin and Muiz. When he spoke, his words were measured, clipped, each one cutting through the air with deliberate weight.

“You were both present when the stalker called during your investigation into the mutilated cat. You heard that voice for yourselves. You know there’s an active threat operating outside this room. So tell me—shouldn’t that individual, the one who reached out directly, be the focus of your man-hours and resources? Instead of attempting to pin flimsy, circumstantial scraps on my clients?”

His eyes narrowed, voice dipping into something sharper.

“Because from where I’m standing, it looks less like an investigation and more like a shortcut. An easy target, rather than confronting the fact that someone out there is manipulating this entire situation. And you’re letting them.”

Martin shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat as though the weight of Mercer’s words pressed into his chest. His eyes flicked briefly to Muiz, searching for backup.

Muiz’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak. His gaze dropped to the folder in front of him, fingers tapping once against the table before stilling completely. The silence between them said enough—it wasn’t defence, it was hesitation. Doubt.

Roxy Anne’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Mercer leaned back slightly, flicking the folder closed with a soft snap, calm, in complete control.

“You’re keeping them here without any real evidence. That’s enough for me. If you want to question them further, you’ll do it through me, and it will be at their homes. Not under interrogation lights, not under threat, and certainly not like they’re suspects,” Mercer concluded, his gaze scanning each of us. 

Roxy Anne’s fingers tapped the edge of the table. 

“Mr. Mercer, this is a homicide investigation. We are under an obligation to follow up on any leads, and—”

Mercer raised a single hand, palm flat on the table. 

The room fell silent instantly. 

“I understand the obligations, Detective. But you are not above the law. You are not entitled to hold them in a room under interrogation for hours based on what—an email and a strand of hair? That is absurd.”

I could feel my pulse starting to slow slightly, hope flickering. Zion’s arm around me tightened just a fraction, grounding me as I fought to keep my hands from trembling.

Roxy Anne’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward. 

“The evidence places Ms. Thompson at the scene and suggests a motive—”

“Suggests,” Mercer interrupted, voice even but steel-thin.

“Not proven. And until you can prove beyond a reasonable doubt, they go free. I suggest you consider what holding them any longer does to the integrity of your investigation—and your careers.”

Before Roxy Anne could finish drawing a breath, Zion exploded.

“Suggests? Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice was a roar, shaking the room. His hand crushed mine tight as he leaned forward, eyes blazing at the detectives.

“You’ve got jack shit, and you’re sitting here acting like she’s guilty because it fucking fits your lazy goddamn narrative!”

“Mr. Royal—” Roxy Anne tried to cut in, but Zion slammed right over her words, spitting rage.

“Don’t you fucking ‘Mr. Royal’ me! You think an email sent from our house means it was her? That’s your big smoking gun? Bullshit! Some bastard’s out there playing games, framing her, and you’re eating it up like fucking amateurs!” His fist cracked down against the table, making the reports jump.

“She’s not the one stalking, she’s not the one mutilating animals, she’s the one who’s been terrorised by that sick fuck since the start! And you sit here, accusing her? Like she’d suddenly fucking snap and do the same shit? Do you even hear how insane that sounds?”

His voice rose again, almost a snarl. 

“You’ve got the wrong fucking person. Wrong place, wrong accusations, wrong everything!”

The silence that followed was a living, dangerous thing. Zion’s chest heaved, every muscle taut with fury, his glare locked on the detectives like he’d tear through both of them if they so much as blinked the wrong way. 

Martin shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting toward Muiz; even Roxy Anne’s composure cracked for half a second, her jaw tightening as she straightened in her chair.

Then Mercer’s voice cut through like a blade, calm but absolute.

“Mr. Royal.”

Zion didn’t move, still burning holes through the detectives.

“Sit. Down. Not another word.”

The command hit hard. 

Zion’s shoulders twitched, coiled rage trembling under his skin, but slowly—reluctantly—he sank back into his chair. His hand still gripped mine, knuckles white, but he forced himself silent, his fury barely contained beneath Mercer’s authority.

Mercer turned back to the detectives, the faintest edge of disdain in his eyes. 

“Now. As I was saying—my clients are leaving. Unless you’d like to explain to Internal Affairs how you detained them on smoke and supposition. So I’ll ask once: are they free to leave?”

Roxy Anne’s eyes narrowed, flicking over him as though weighing her next move. At last, she exhaled through her nose, voice clipped.

“Fine. They’re free to go… for now. But know this—we’ll be in touch. Our investigation isn’t over, and if anything else comes up, you will hear from us.”

Mercer didn’t flinch. 

His gaze stayed locked on hers, unshakable.

“Understood. And when you do contact us, I expect it will be handled professionally—without intimidation, and without baseless assumptions about my clients.”

Her lips twitched, the barest smirk. “Of course, Mr. Mercer.”

The tension in the room hung like static, but Mercer rose, gathering the folder neatly, and with a sharp nod, ushered us out.