“Hell if I know. I just texted Alan to find out.”
We break apart when Jake turns to look at us, eyeing us like we’re idiots. We are idiots, apparently. Someone better tell me why we didn’t know this before coming.
“Mind if I asked what happened?” I ask, wondering if this is in any way related to the mystery that is Delaney Grove.
He shrugs. “Motorcycle accident a few years ago. Paralyzed me from the waist down. It’s taken some adjusting, but I’ve managed to move on with my life.”
Definitely not our unsub. And his father has had court cases going on during several of the kill times, alibiing out that way. They were our only hopes, and it seemed so easy. Apparently too easy.
There’s no way a man in a wheelchair managed to overpower these guys, and do all the things that have been done.
“So why is the FBI knocking on my door and asking questions about my old wreck?” he asks, seeming genuinely confused.
“Any chance you watch the news?” Donny asks him, pocketing his phone.
“Not really,” Jacob tells us, shrugging. “It’s pretty fucking depressing, and I’ve had more of that than I care to reflect on.”
He crosses his hands in his lap. Not once has either of his legs twitched.
It’s a habit, when one is faking something like paralysis, to get twitchy, giving one’s self away. He hasn’t scratched his legs or anything.
I know Donny is watching for the same signs I am.
He’s too calm, too disinterested in us.
“So, you came by to ask me if I watch the news?” Jacob asks, looking between us.
He seems to enjoy the off-balance stance we have.
“No,” Donny mumbles.
“Actually, I was wondering if you could shed some light on the Evans family.”
A coldness crosses his gaze, and he looks away.
“You’re welcome to leave at any time.”
I look at Donny, and he looks at me. We stare, both of us confused.
“Mr. Denver, you were friends with them, and we think a serial killer is out trying to avenge their deaths. Even though the reports indicate they died because of a car accident.”
He looks back at us. “Does a car accident usually castrate a man?” he asks incredulously. “Does it leave a girl and boy so broken they drive for towns and towns to seek medical attention?”
“So you do know something?” I ask, leaning closer.
“I know that if someone is out avenging their deaths, I’d like to shake their hand. Marcus was my boyfriend, though I never had the balls to admit it back then. And Victoria was like my little sister. I was seventeen, like Marcus, when they died.”
My lips tense. He’s holding something back.
“Can you give us anything to help us follow up on how they were really killed?” Donny asks.
“Now you want to know? Because back then, when I went to the FBI dude who had wrongly profiled Robert Evans as a serial killer and told him my friends—the two sweetest fucking humans ever—had been killed by the town, he told me it wasn’t his case. To let the cops do their jobs, and if it was more than a car accident, they’d handle it.”
The bitterness in his tone is real, and he definitely doesn’t seem to be hiding his anger over it. Which makes him less suspect. Still…my gut is telling me he’s somehow involved.
“Who was that?” Donny asks.
“His last name was Bag, and his first name was Douche. Sometimes he went by SSA Johnson.”