“Hunter, talk to me. Please.”
His head snaps up, those green eyes flashing. “Libby, I can't. Don't you think I would if I could? You're the only person I want to talk to.”
“So talk to me.”
He shakes his head. His jaw is locked, his shoulders set. “I can't,” he says. “I won't.”
“But it's not a secret? The FBI knows it happened?”
He grits his teeth, looking stoic. I take the answer as a 'yes'.
“Are you ashamed?” I ask. “Embarrassed? Please don't tell me that you think I'll judge you.”
He grabs my shoulders. The face I miss so much is tantalizingly close, only inches from mine. “Libby, please. You need to go.”
“No.” I’m tired of being sent away, dismissed, denied access to people I want, feelings I need. “I—I've never liked anyone the way I like you, Hunter. And I don’t want to have what's going on with us cut off before it even has a chance to start, all because of someone like Priscilla or that Lockwood guy. I can't let you get dragged further into this because you won't accept some freakin' help. I heard Dr. Bernard that day, and I heard her say you were in the right. She knows about this secret of yours, doesn't she?”
His brows are drawn up tight, his face set, harsh and sad and pessimistic.
His mouth quirks into a little frown, and as he looks into my eyes I swear that for a brief flicker of time, I can feel how much he wants me. Not my body—me. But then he stalks to the front door and pushes it open.
“I'm sorry, Libby. Later on you'll see it's for the best. You don't want to get close to me right now. You don't know who I am, and if you think you do, you're wrong.” His gaze rolls over me, and I'm left with the poker face. “Did you get the check?”
Rage lights up inside me like a match. “I don't know if I got the check. I haven't checked the mail because I've been so damn worried about you I forgot there was mail!” I whip out my phone and text Cross: 'It might b a while. U prob have time to take that walk u mentioned.'
I hold it up. “My ride is gone. You're stuck with me.” I sink down to the floor and cross my legs and glare up at him. “While I'm here let me tell you something that I need from you. Something I think might help you, too. Because I've found out something of my own. Something important.
“My friend Cross says a man was messing with his bike that night at your house, and that's one of the reasons he lost control of the wheel. The guy's name—or the name of the man he thinks it is—is Jim Gunn, the man who used to date Missy King. Cross knows about Missy. He knows his father made her disappear and he says Jim Gunn is the one who did it. I need to know what you know about Jim Gunn.”
If Hunter was wearing his poker face before, now his features go completely slack. He turns a wobbly half circle before he crouches, jerking a hand back through his messy golden hair. “Is this a f**king joke?”
“No. Of course it's not. Hunter, just bear with me for a second. I want to show you a picture of him. Of Jim Gunn.” I pull the image up on my cell phone but am hesitant to hand it over to Hunter. The snapshot came from Governor Carlson's computer, and Cross found it—and a whole bunch of other crazy shit—by accident one day almost a year ago when his laptop died, and he decided to hack his way into his father's to re-image plans for a wrecked motorcycle. I meet Hunter's eyes and hold his gaze as I pass him my phone.
I can tell the moment he sees what I saw: Michael Lockwood's face. Jim Gunn has different hair in this photo, but his face is unmistakable: the sunken cheekbones, thin lip, super square jaw. His hair is blond instead of dark, like it is now, but he even wears it the same: greasy and brushed back.
Hunter's eyes widen. “Holy shit.” His gaze bores into mine. “How does Cross know this? How does he have a photo?”
“Cross borrowed his computer. He found this and some saved e-mails
“Does he still have the e-mails?”
“Yes, I think. He had the picture in his inbox. He logged in on my phone and there it was.”
“Holy shit.” He's on his feet again, pacing. “Holy shit, Libby.”
I nod. “And if Jim Gunn AKA Lockwood somehow knows that Cross knows, it would make sense that he tried to mess with Cross's bike.”
He nods, still pacing.
“What do you know about him? Do you have any kind of evidence? Or maybe knowing he and Jim Gunn are one and the same will make something connect. Either way, this is new info. You have to tell the FBI.”
He stops mid-step and turns to me, looking like he's seen a ghost.
“You're not? Why not? That makes no sense.”
He shuts his eyes, and I grab onto both his hands, squeezing them in mine as I stand right in front of him. “Hunter, please.”
“I don't have anything to share with them. Jim Gunn is just a name. A name Dr. Libby knows, and one Cross knows. Unless Cross has info that’s very damning, and that also happen to deal with the Sarabelle situation specifically…I don’t know how much it will help me.”
He looks into my eyes, and his are so bleak, my heart sinks before he even continues. “I'm a good suspect, Libby. They'll charge me before they pin it to the governor.”
“But...why?” I let go of his hands and raise mine in the air, ready to launch into a passionate attempt try to get his deep, dark secret out of him again. But before I can start talking, he bows his head.
“Because. I killed my stepmother. And then there was a cover-up.”
I frown at him, confused. “No you didn't. She had cancer.” Everybody knows this. When his father ran for U.S. Senate, his wife Rita's untimely death was a major part of his sympathetic story. “Hunter...?”
He slumps down against the wall and pulls his knees up to his chest. He props his forearms there and rests his head on top of them. All I can see is the top of his hair. But I can hear his voice.
I slide down beside him, and he tells me.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
~HUNTER~
I tell her everything. I don't see why not. I don’t worry about how it will make her feel, either. This secret, with me for so long, can’t wait to leap out.
To understand how the FBI knows what they know, she has to understand that Priscilla—or Lockwood, AKA Jim Gunn—found out I spent a year or so talking to Libby back in New Orleans when I was a teenager, and sometime in the last week, the digital file cabinet in Dr. Libby's inbox got hacked. The information was turned over to the FBI, presumably by Priscilla.
“So if I were to try to pin this all on her, they'd immediately suspect I was just playing tit for tat with the person who turned me in. But even if they didn't think that, I'm going to have a real tough time proving that I'm innocent...when I'm not.”