“Hunter, talk to me. Please.”
His head snaps up, those green eyes flashing. “I can’t. Don’t you think I would if I could? You’re the only person I want to talk to.”
Something warm blooms in my chest. My heart starts kicking harder. “Then do it.”
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? Whatever it is, the FBI knows it happened and they’re using it against you somehow?”
He grits his teeth, sucking air in through his nose.
“Are you ashamed? Embarrassed? Please don’t tell me that you think I’ll judge you.”
He grabs my shoulders. “Libby, please. You need to go now.”
“No.” I’m tired of being sent away, dismissed, denied access to people I want, people that I need. “I—I’ve never felt this way about anyone but 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 heard Dr. Bernard that day, and I heard her say that she was on your side. She knows about this secret, doesn’t she?”
His mouth quirks into a little frown, and as he looks into my eyes, I swear 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. You think you get things, about me and everything that’s going on, but you’re just wrong.” His gaze rolls over me, and I’m left with the poker face. “Did you get the check?”
“I don’t know if I got the check! I haven’t checked the mail. I’ve been worrying about you.” I whip out my phone and text Cross: ‘It might be a while. U prob have time to take that walk you mentioned.’
I hold it up. “My ride is gone. You’re stuck with me.” I sink down to the floor, sitting cross-legged, and stare stubbornly in front of me. “While I’m here, let me tell you something I need from you. Something I think might help you, too. Because I’ve found out something that could possibly be important.
“My friend Cross says a man with black hair and prominent cheekbones was messing with his bike that night at your house, and that’s one of the reasons he lost control of the bike. The guy’s name, he thinks, is Jim Gunn, a man who used to be an acquaintance of 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 right in front of me, jerking a hand back through his messy blond hair. “Is this a fucking joke?”
“Of course not. Hunter, just bear with me for a second. I want to show you a picture of him.” 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. 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: a face that looks an awful lot like the face of the guy who offered me a ride that night outside the Joseph. Like the face Hunter bashed in during his fight. Like 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?”
“His computer died, and he was living at his parents’ at the time so he got on his dad’s computer. I don’t really remember how he found it, but he found a bunch of e-mails, too.”
“Does he still have them?”
“Yes, I think. He had the picture in his inbox. He logged in on my phone and there it was. He’s got it on some external drives too.”
“Holy shit.” He’s on his feet again, pacing. “Holy shit, Libby.”
“What do you know about him? Do you have any kind of evidence? Jim Gunn is Michael Lockwood, am I right? They look the same.”
He nods, then shakes his head. “They look the same, but I don’t have any proof. Jim Gunn is just a name. A name Dr. Libby knows, and one Cross knows and associates with this picture. But unless Cross has info that’s very damning, and that also happen to deal with the Sarabelle situation specifically…I don’t know if it would help me.”