The Scammer - 29

They question me for over five hours. When was the last time you saw Kammy? Why were her items in your room? Do you know where

she is? Over and over. Nothing about my story has changed. I had no idea, and I have no idea where she could be. Having lawyers

as parents gives them enough cause to let me go.

But one thing is clear: someone is trying to frame me. And they’re doing a pretty good job of it.

I didn’t mention Devonte. Mentioning him would only have brought more heat to a situation I need to handle with minimal attention.

Because if the police suspect that I have something to do with Kammy’s disappearance, they won’t be eager to help me if things

go bad back in the dorm.

It’s the bloodstains that make me sick to my stomach. I always knew Devonte was dangerous . . . but not on this level. Never

like this.

And through the entire ordeal, no one has even asked about Legacy.

I walk out of the station close to midnight in a daze and spot his car parked across the street.

Nick.

He waves at me and I could burst into tears, I’m so happy to see him.

“Hey you,” he says.

“Hey . . . you,” I mumble.

We stare at one another, waiting for someone to make the first move. Finally, he reaches for my jacket and pulls me into him,

gathering me the same tight way I love. As if he doesn’t want to let go and I never want him to.

Nick pulls up in front of the Rock, shoving the gear in park. Outside, the dorm looks so normal. Just like the day I first

moved in. No one would know what kind of insanity has been going on inside. Or maybe they do. Maybe everyone knows, and if

so, why hasn’t anyone tried to help? Why hasn’t the university gotten involved?

“I . . . can’t believe you want to come back here,” Nick mutters, shaking his head. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

I sigh and unbuckle my seat belt. “Thanks for the ride.”

He grips my wrist. “Hey, I’m not leaving you alone!”

I snatch my hand back, trying to find some composure.

“Nick, I need a moment,” I say. “Today has been . . . a lot.”

“Yeah I know . . . but . . .”

“Nick,” I hiss. “We can talk later.”

I jump out of the car. I have zero energy left to give him or anyone.

The suite has been combed thoroughly. Every drawer emptied, cabinet opened, contents laid out. They even searched between

the sofa cushions, dusting for fingerprints. This gives me pause. Devonte’s prints should be in the system. They’ll question

him soon enough.

In my room, a foul stench permeates the air. The carpet has been sprayed, my towels and sheets taken.

They were looking for more blood. Kammy’s blood.

The shivers set in, teeth chattering. I run into the bathroom and stop short at the message written on the mirror in red lipstick.

Loren’s red lipstick.

SNITCH!

I wretch up whatever’s left in my stomach. The room spins. I slump over, taking my usual resting spot between the tub and

toilet, with my head leaned back, face up to the sky. There’s a ceiling tile out of place. They really looked everywhere for

Kammy.

But Kammy’s gone. Maybe forever.

I bite my fist, clenching my teeth, a sob reverberating back into me.

You’re not a good friend.

It’s gone too far. You need to stop this. Once and for all.

Kammy’s missing, Loren’s practically killing herself, and I’m a person of interest in my roommate’s disappearance . . . possible murder.

I pick up my cell and dial the number. This is the step I’ve been preparing for. All I’ll do is leave an anonymous tip about

Devonte. Then whatever happens after that . . . happens. But fingers can’t be pointed at me. At least, I hope not.

“This is . . . Jo. Am I speaking with Arnold Woods?”

“Speaking,” he says, slurping the end of a drink through a straw.

“You’re Devonte Saunders’s parole officer, right? I’m just calling to let you know that he’s up to his scams again. Credit

card stuff. I thought you should know.”

There’s silence over the phone for a moment. I check to see if I still have a connection.

“How’d you get this number?”

The question takes me off guard. “I . . . researched.”

Over the line, a cup is slammed down, papers shuffling.

“You got a pen?” he asks, hastily. “Take down this number. You need to talk to Detective Andy Gates. Call him right now and

tell him everything.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Just do it, you hear?”

I swallow and take down the number, afraid to ask any more questions. He doesn’t say goodbye before ending the call. I dial Detective Gates, and it goes to voicemail. I’m nervous about leaving my number. What if he can track me down? What if he finds out who I am?

“This is . . . Jo, I’m calling regarding Devonte Saunders. Can you please call me back?”

Something about the urgency in the parole officer’s voice makes me uneasy. Something isn’t adding up.

I fire up the laptop, putting his name in the search bar. Same things I found before come up. His hip-hop business dealings.

His scam charges and subsequent prison sentences. But I keep digging, googling more. What did I miss?

I think of the detective and try both of their names in a newspaper archive site. Andy Gates + Devonte Saunders.

And there it is. A small article from over twenty years ago makes my heart plummet. Location and timeline works out with what

I know about him. It makes sense why I couldn’t find it before. He changed his name.

David Saunders . . . suspect in the murder of a nineteen-year-old college student.

I sprint out of the dorm, full speed toward the Communications building. Her class starts in ten minutes. I only need five

minutes.

I spot Loren walking through the outdoor basketball courts, a shortcut some students use to avoid walking up the hill. Even

from a distance, I can see that she’s frail, wobbly. I fly right in front of her, out of breath.

Loren stops short, clutching her bag. Then her eyes go wide.

“What’s wrong? Did they find her? Did they?”

I push the article in her line of sight. She scans the top line, her eyes narrowing.

“Where’d you get this?” she snaps, trying to grab my phone but I snatch it away.

“He was a suspect in a murder investigation,” I explain, with rasping breaths. “A girl went MISSING and was eventually found,

beaten to death. They didn’t have enough evidence to prosecute him.”

Even as I say this aloud, my chin trembles at the thought of what could have happened to Kammy.

Loren hesitates, nostrils flaring. “You know how they have fake news articles. What do we keep telling you? You have to do

your research. That’s not even his name!”

I grip her arm, noticing how fragile her wrist feels in my hand. “He CHANGED his name! This is REAL, Loren! There’s a case

number! You have to believe me. I wouldn’t lie about this.”

Loren wiggles out of my hold, glaring at me.

“Stop,” she says, her voice cracking. “Jordyn. Just . . . stop.”

I watch her walk off, realizing it’s too late. She’s gone. Just like Kammy.

We only have a few weeks of school left before fall semester is over. Spring can look one of two ways, depending on what happens

with Kammy.

I glance at the chair propped up against the door to ensure it stays locked. But the strange chanting music thumping through the walls makes it feel like Devonte’s meeting is happening in the middle of my room. How is he just able to carry on like normal? Why doesn’t campus police do anything? He’s probably in their ears as well. I look at Devonte through a terrifyingly different lens now, imagining those soft, gentle hands wrapping around my throat. Would he even break a sweat?

All I know is that I haven’t slept in forty-eight hours since finding that article and I may not be able to hang on for much

longer. But I can’t leave Loren alone.

My phone buzzes. Nick.

“Hey.”

“Hey? What’s that sound?”

I scoff. “My roommates.”

There’s a brief pause. “I’m coming up.”

“What? No! Don’t.”

But Nick’s line is already dead. I stare at the chair propped up on my room door. Should I make a run for it, meet him halfway?

I don’t want him in here. I don’t know what Devonte is capable of. People are missing. He could be next!

A pounding on the suite door makes me freeze. He must have already been on his way when he called.

The humming stops.

“Oh, you bold to be walking up in here again,” Kareem says.

“Is Jordyn home?” Nick asks in a playful voice.

“No,” he snaps. “But we can make another call to her parents for you.”

I swing my door open, finding Nick and Kareem facing off. Nick raises an eyebrow, and slides right by him, walking into my room.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I snap, slamming my door shut.

He smiles at me. “Hey you.”

I chuckle, unable to resist him.

“Hey you,” I gush.

He holds up a plastic soup container. “Brought you some gumbo.”

“Gumbo. Who made it?”

“Me, of course. Food is my love language.”

I snort. “That makes entirely too much sense given you are a man of few words.”

“You have to eat something,” he insists. “You can’t survive on twigs and berries.”

“Everyone else eats twigs and berries and they’re just fine.”

He shakes his head. “If everyone jumped off the roof, would you jump too? You need some meat on your bones.”

I giggle. “You know, these little proverbs sound funnier now knowing who raised you.”

The corner of Nick’s mouth tugs into a grin. “Yeah, yeah.”

He slips off his jacket and tosses it on the chair.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m staying.” He gazes around the room. I did my best to put it back in order after the search but there are still traces

of it on the walls, the dresser drawers crooked and out of place.

“No way. I’m already in enough trouble with you here.”

“You’re not in trouble with someone who doesn’t belong here,” he gripes.

“It’s not about him. It’s about . . . my new reputation,” I say, grimacing. “I don’t want it getting on you. You have a campaign

to run! You’ve already done enough for me.”

“I’m staying,” he states, resolve in his eyes.

I open my mouth to argue but can’t find the strength. Mentally, I’m all over the place.

“Fine. Take the floor.”

He glances down and chuckles. “Aren’t we past that?”

I sigh in defeat and scoot over on the bed. He holds up a finger and grabs the container of stew.

“First, eat five spoonfuls, then I’ll leave you alone.”

I snarl at the container then huff. “I’ll only eat if you talk.”

“About what?”

I narrow my eyes. “You know what.”

Catching my meaning, he sighs and pulls a plastic spoon out.

“I can feed myself, sheesh.” I grab the spoon and pop in a scoop. The spicy flavors take over my mouth, warmth entering my

belly. He stares at my lips and I look up at him, expectantly.

“Oh! Right. Uh, first . . . I’m sorry for the way I acted during Thanksgiving. Well, after it. Thanksgiving Day was . . .

amazing! Having you there with my family, my real family. It was fun.”

He pauses, nodding at the gumbo. I eat another spoonful.

“It was . . . also a lot for me to take. Seeing you, in my room, at my house. You’re right about the boomerang. Any time I talk about Ashley, it’s like it comes up all over again. I can still hear the gunshots, like a never-ending echo. But it wasn’t the shot that gave me nightmares. It was the silence that came right after it. It’s why I have trouble sleeping without noise.”

He tilts his head at the spoon and I eat another bite.

“I don’t just want to be friends. I want to watch Love Island with you. I want to kiss you whenever I want. I want to kiss you now. But . . . I don’t know if you’ll forgive me for being

an ass.”

Those silly heart flutters. I feel them again and eat another spoonful.

“But whatever happens between us, I want to do everything in my power to make sure you’re safe. Including using my school

government perks and calling Student Housing myself to find you a new spot ASAP.”

I hold the spoon midair. “Really? You’d do that?”

Nick kneels down eye level with me, hands gripping my knees.

“Jordyn, I’d do anything for you,” he utters. “I just . . . can’t lose someone I care about again. It would break me. And

all this . . . really scares me.”

Those bright, childlike eyes. I can lose myself in them forever. I free up my hand to push a piece of hair behind his ear.

“You’re not going to lose me. I promise.”

He gives me a silly grin. “And lastly, truth is . . . I’m having a hard time sleeping without you. It’s weird.”

“See? I’m useful.”

His hands slide up to my waist. “So am I.”