OUR PERSONAL RELATIONSHIP? WELL, I WOULDN'T CALL IT THAT PERSONAL GIVEN I DIDN'T KNOW HIS GODDAMN LAST NAME AND OCCUPATION UNTIL ABOUT TEN SECONDS AGO.

☆︎ FEBRUARY 2ND, 2000 ☆︎

Cotton Weary was, in fact, dead. And for reasons that the local police wouldn't tell him, Dewey seemed to think they believed someone working on the Stab 3 set was responsible for it and the murder of his girlfriend, Christine.

So, Indiana and every other person currently employed by the movie had to get up at ass o'clock in the morning and go to the studio. And Dewey explained that over the next few days, detectives would be paired up and interviewing all of them and the two lead detectives would likely be hanging around the set for some time.

The interrogations were being held in various places around the studio, and the one that each member of The Woodsboro Killers would sit through was in a small room meant for table reads that was just a little ways away from the main set.

Jackson was called first, and Indiana sat with Sophia on the steps of the fake Macher house, waiting for their turn. Isaiah was anxiously pacing in front of them while Luca was leaning sleepily against the front door.

"I wonder what's taking so long," Isaiah mumbled, looking in the direction where an older man named Detective Wallace led Jackson away. "Jennifer's interview only took five minutes."

"Because Jennifer's a ditz that's not smart enough to commit murder," Sophia told him, the corners of her lips turning up. "By that standard, Luca's should only last a few minutes as well."

"Rude," Luca whined while lightly kicking her back with the toe of his sneakers. "I was literally just standing here." Sophia just shrugged, not prepared to take her comment back. "And besides, it couldn't be me or any of us. We were at our show all last night. So these cops are stupider than me for even talking to us."

"Dewey said it was just the procedure," Indiana said, leaning back on her hands. "Everyone from Milton to the cleaning staff is getting interrogated whether they've even met Cotton or not. But Luca's right — still a huge waste of taxpayer money. Then again, all cops are a waste of taxpayer money."

"Dewey is still considered a cop," Isaiah reminded her, raising an eyebrow.

"And we love him," Indiana said while Sophia nodded along. "But I also think he and the others are useless in eighty percent of situations, and they need to be defunded." And again, Sophia nodded in agreement.

"So, you don't think they're useful enough to find out what happened to Cotton?" Luca questioned, coming to sit on the stairs with them.

"It's not like they've exactly been helpful in past murder situations," Sophia muttered. Dewey didn't help stop Billy and Stu. The cops assigned to protect Indy and Sidney at Windsor both ate it. Not to mention the horrible ones involved with the death of Indiana's parents that put her in handcuffs for being the only one alive on the scene. She didn't expect the detectives here to be any better just because they were from a big city.

"I mean, do we have to find the killer?" Indiana asked, only partly joking. "I don't think anyone is gonna be, like, traumatized and shaken from this loss."

"He's still dead, Indy," Isaiah told her, huffing a little. "Yeah, he was annoying, but he didn't deserve to die. Aren't you tired of knowing so many dead people?"

Indiana's sarcastic grin faded and looked at Isaiah guiltily. Sometimes she forgot how unaffected and desensitized by this stuff she was until she spoke with someone that wasn't like her. And Isaiah forcing her to admit that outside of her therapist's office was a horrible feeling.

"I'm sorry, Zay," she told him softly. "It's fucked up that someone would do this. You're right."

Isaiah nodded in thanks and then sat by Luca, making it a tight fit for all four of them on the stairs. Each was just getting either more bored or anxious as they awaited Jackson's return and someone else's departure.

They'd already been there for an hour and a half, having some slightly stale donuts for their breakfast as the cast was questioned first so that they could get back to filming. Jackson nearly did a little dance when it was his turn simply because it meant the waiting was over.

"You four just look like you're waiting for the handcuffs to be slapped on," Roman joked, walking up to them.

"Oh, I'm a pro at getting those off," Indy said, grinning up at him.

"So, has our talented director been cleared yet?" Luca asked, raising an eyebrow, knowing Roman was one of the first to be questioned.

"He has," he said, nodding to him. "And now he gets to deal with the crisis that is befalling his movie because of this. I mean, I didn't even want Cotton to have a cameo, and now all the news outlets are going to be talking about this and blaming the movie. It's fucking Stab all over again."

Really, Indiana agreed with Roman on almost everything, but she had to bite her tongue at that. She didn't think a man as widely hated as Cotton getting killed in his home was anything like the deaths of those two Windsor students in the movie theater.

"Well, bad publicity is still good publicity," Sophia told him with a shrug. "It's why we didn't change the band name after Billy and Stu. Years from now, when people look up the Woodsboro killers, they'll get the murderers and us. The band legacy will live so long as people keep being obsessed with serial killers."

"And people are way too obsessed with serial killers to stop doing that," Isaiah added. "So, we're gonna be legends, basically."

"Ah, and I suppose you're gonna thank Billy and Stu in your next acceptance speech because of that?" Roman asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, we're gonna tell their ghosts to 'get fucked' and then vandalize their gravestones like we do when we get to be at home," Indiana said, smiling again. "You know, the mature and classy thing to do."

"Whatever happened to taking the high road?"

Sophia shook her head. "They go low, we go lower. Kill my girlfriend? I kill you and then draw a little dick on your headstone."

"Well, what are you gonna do on Cotton's grave?" Luca asked curiously.

"Don't know yet," Indy said, shrugging. "Maybe spray paint the names of all the people more famous than him."

"Don't think there's enough spray paint in the world," Sophia joked.

"I'll find something good to do after what he tried to pull in Windsor," she muttered, still full of hate for him even now that he was gone.

"Oh, my god," Luca said, sitting a little straighter. "He'd totally be alive if he hadn't turned down the tickets for the concert last night!"

Indiana and Sophia shared a look and couldn't help but let out a few snickers. Though when Isaiah glared at them for being so disrespectful, they stifled them a little bit better — though it was still fucking hilarious to think about.

"Guess our music really is to die for, huh?" Sophia asked before beginning to giggle. Indiana laughed more as well, and the two girls ended up elbowing each other to try and calm down.

"Y'all are going to hell," Isaiah told them flatly.

"Yeah, but that's probably for the cheating and murder and underage drinking and lying and cursing and being slutty," Indiana listed off, counting on her fingers.

"Yeah, probably for those," Soph agreed, grinning in amusement.

"Hey, here comes Jack," Luca cut in, nodding behind them all.

After twenty-five minutes, Jackson was coming around the corner, a concerned expression on his face as he looked at all of them, specifically Indiana. But she didn't really think anything of it as she grinned.

"Don't tell me — you murdered Cotton and have a life sentence now," Indiana guessed while standing up. "How ever will we replace you in the band?"

"Uh, um, Indy," Jackson stuttered out, the grimace on his face prominent. "There's something I have to tell you—"

"Oh, shit," Sophia said, getting up as well. "You didn't really kill Cotton, did you?"

"What? No," he said, shaking his head. Then he sighed heavily and grabbed Indiana's shoulder. "It's about M—"

"Winger! You're up!" Detective Wallace shouted while coming from the same direction Jackson did.

"We'll talk after," Indy said, pulling out of Jackson's hold. She walked backward toward the detective while winking at her friends. "This won't take long."

"What'd you want to tell her?" Isaiah asked, seeing the concerned look still on his face.

"Indy may not have killed Cotton," Jackson said, watching his best friend disappear around the corner, "but another murder may be about to commence."

☆︎

"Look, Mr. Detective Man," Indiana said while trailing after him with her hands shoved in her sweatpants pockets. "I was woken up a good four hours too early, so how about we just keep this short and simple and let me go home while you focus on the actual culprit."

Wallace rolled his eyes and pushed open the door to the improvised interrogation room. "We'll try to be brief," he said, and she shot a fake smile his way as she passed. "As I said, I'm Detective Wallace, and Detective Kincaid here is my partner."

Indiana turned her head to look around the room and spot the other detective, only to come to a screeching halt and almost trip over her feet. Because sitting in a chair with an anxious expression on his face and wide, green eyes was fucking Mark.

"Have a seat, Miss Winger," Wallace said, nodding to the chair that was across the table from Mark and the empty chair meant for him.

"I think I'd rather stand," Indiana said, feeling every muscle in her body tensing up, telling her to either run or jump over the table and hit the man that was still staring at her.

Wallace looked between Indians and his silent partner and sighed. "I have been made aware of the personal relationship between you two, and we will not let it interfere with the investi—"

Indiana cut him off with a scoff. "Our personal relationship?" she asked. "Well, I wouldn't call it that personal given I didn't know his goddamn last name and occupation until about ten seconds ago."

Mark looked as if he wanted to say something but decided against it, biting down hard on his tongue as he fiddled with the pen in his hands.

"Miss Winger," Wallace said, looking at her pointedly. "Are you going to comply with this investigation?"

In response, Indiana took a seat in the empty chair, making a point to scrape it loudly against the tiled floor as she did so. And she refused to look Mark's way, who was sliding a thick file between them on the table, replacing the much smaller one that they'd been using for Jackson's interrogation.

This folder, which was easily two inches tall, had INDIANA WINGER scrawled on the front in red marker. It was a whole file on her and it had enough shoved inside that she knew it wasn't thrown together overnight.

Mark had always had it.

"Alright," Wallace began, not caring how she glared at the folder, "before we begin, please state your name for the record."

"Indiana Jones Winger."

"This is serious, Miss Winger," Mark finally spoke up, giving her an unimpressed look.

Indiana cut her eyes to him, a dark look in her eyes that had him leaning back in surprise, never having seen so much rage in them. "That is my full name, Detective Kincaid. I'm surprised that's not in your fucking file."

"No, I suppose it's not," he sighed, glancing down.

"But we'll show you what is," Wallace said, opening said file that had her blood boiling.

Then he put a printed-off photo of a crime scene in front of her, the bloody corpse looking quite familiar. "Alexander Morrison," Wallace stated, saying the name of the man that killed her parents.

The photo was soon joined by a second one, the body even less identifiable given that she'd stabbed him in the face after he was already dead. "Billy Loomis."

And lastly, she was staring at a body that was gutted in an auditorium that Indiana wished she could forget about. "Nancy Loomis."

Indiana looked at the three bodies, not feeling much of anything at all — they deserved it, and if she could turn back time, especially knowing what would happen with Mickey because of him, she'd have left Billy in even worse shape.

"Any particular reason I'm looking at these?" she asked, slowly looking up and setting her elbows on the table. "Or do you want me to autograph my work?"

Mark was the one to put down the next photo, which Indiana studied carefully.

"Cotton Weary," Mark said as if she couldn't recognize the dead man in the photo.

"Notice any similarities?" Wallace asked in an accusing tone.

Indiana scoffed in disbelief. "Holy shit. You seriously think I killed him?" Hurt washed over her as she looked at Mark.

"That's not it, Miss Winger," Mark told her, shaking his head. "But we have reason to believe—"

"Let me stop you," she said, speaking a little louder. "I didn't kill Cotton last night, and my alibi is air fucking tight! I was performing and have a few thousand witnesses that can attest to that — one of whom is in this room."

"The coroner narrowed his time of death to a window that ends just before your concert and begins a good two hours before it started," Wallace informed her. "So, it is in your best interest to cooperate with us on this."

"Fucking fine," Indiana said, leaning back in her chair, her mood worsening.

"Three days ago, you were overheard threatening Cotton Weary on this very set," Wallace claimed.

It took Indiana a moment to think of what he was referring to, admittedly. Because she certainly didn't say any threats to his face because she'd avoided Cotton like the plague.

"Yeah, I said I wished I had killed him back at Windsor," she said, not bothering to lie. "Cotton is an ass who cares more about fame than the people he's hurt to achieve it. He's a sexist dick that nearly got Sidney Prescott killed — and anyone that is a threat to Sidney is someone that I want to see six feet under. I hated him, but so did most of the people that knew him. Did I kill him? No. Am sad or surprised that this happened? Also no."

"Speaking of Miss Prescott," Mark spoke up, "you wouldn't happen to know how to get into contact with her? Would you?"

Indiana's glare returned. "Yeah, no, she moved to 1646 None Of Your Fucking Business Road," she spat, as defensive as ever about Sidney and her safety. Just because a hookup was flashing a police badge now didn't mean anything.

"There's no need to be so aggressive, Miss Winger—" Mark had no goddamn idea how angry hearing him call her that made her. "—but we have reason to believe these murders are connected to what happened to all of you back in Woodsboro."

That made Indiana pause for a moment, her anger wavering with confusion. "Billy and Stu are dead," she stated while picking up the photo of Billy's body. "Exhibit A."

"There are details we can't release to the public yet," Mark told her. "Details you're not permitted to know—"

"Okay, you won't tell me the details, and I won't tell you about Sidney, so it seems like we're done here," Indiana cut him off, crossing her arms.

"Miss Winger, when was the last time you spoke to the victim?" Wallace asked, pretty much ignoring what she'd said.

"Last year when my band was on his show," she answered, rolling her eyes. "He told us he didn't want the tickets we offered him for the show that happened last night. We're not exactly best buds after what happened in Windsor. As for that girlfriend, I'd never met her."

"Do you know of anyone that would've wanted to harm him?" Mark then asked.

Indiana couldn't help but laugh. "Like I said, he's an ass. There's probably hundreds, so I don't know why you think it's connected to Woodsboro specifically."

"We have our reasons," was all Mark told her.

"Right," she nodded, getting more annoyed. "And am I allowed to know the reason why you think I'm involved? Your theory on why I would've done this?"

"Aside from a tip that you frequently threaten to stab people when they don't do as you please? I've seen a lot of dead bodies in this business," Wallace said, leaning closer to her. "And it's rare to see this much carnage and rage done to a victim — and the only killers that come to mind are those that hid behind a Ghostface mask and you, Miss Winger."

"That's a bias, not evidence," she said, glaring at him. "And god, it's a fucking joke when I say that shit."

"It may not be hard evidence, but your patient records from Dr. Tobias Swain's office certainly raise some alarm bells—"

"Those are supposed to be confidential," she cut him off.

"Only so long as you're not a danger to yourself or others," he shot back.

Indiana was feeling very cornered all of a sudden. She felt like she was fifteen again and being aggressively questioned by officers as they threw her in handcuffs for being alive and covered in blood at the scene of a crime. She felt like she was in Woodsboro when Sheriff Burke thought she must've killed Casey Becker.

It didn't matter that she was trying to move on and make something of herself with her music. Indiana would always be a killer.

So, she swallowed thickly and stared at the file rather than the two detectives, trying to reign in her anger. "Look, I know what my records say."

"Then you know that serial killers often possess the same traits — desensitized to violence, impulsivity, lack of remorse, generalized anxiety—"

"I'm sorry, are you fucking deaf?" Indiana cut Wallace off again. "I just said I know what Dr. Swain has diagnosed me with. Just because I'm a little fucked up after some traumatizing situations doesn't mean I went off the rails and killed Cotton on a random Tuesday. And why would I ever want to be anything like Billy and Stu?"

"Not Mr. Loomis and Mr. Macher," Mark spoke up in a careful tone, similar to the way one would talk to a wild animal. "There's concern of a motive linked to Mr. Altieri."

Indiana's veins felt like ice as she glared at him, forgetting quickly about all the amazing nights with him and the way he made her so happy when they were together.

"Say his name again, and I'm leaving the room and ending this interrogation," she warned. "He's dead and has nothing to do with whatever this is."

"That may not be entirely true—"

"Wallace," Mark cut him off sharply, narrowing his eyes at his partner.

"Look, I get you want to protect her or some shit on the off chance she's not working with him, but she's the best shot we're gonna get at ID'ing it," he said, neither man noticing the confusion growing inside of Indiana.

"What do you mean?" she asked. "Is this the details I can't know?"

"You can know some of them, however, Detective Kincaid thinks it's in the best interest of the case to not involve you too much," Wallace explained, now getting frustrated too. "Even if you could aid us."

"So, which is it, Detective Wallace?" Indiana asked, taking in a deep breath to try and calm down. "Either I'm a psychopath starting my murder spree, or I'm someone that you need help from to solve this?"

"Something tells me you could be both," the older man muttered.

Indiana was fairly sure that Mark was the person she most hated in the room, but Wallace was slowly creeping up on him.

She rolled her eyes and looked at Mark. "What could I potentially identify? A body? A location?"

Mark seemed to hesitate but then pushed his personal feelings to the side to focus on what the case needed. "A voice. Potentially the killer's voice."

"If you have the killer's voice on tape, then why are you fucking harassing everyone on this set?" she asked, scoffing.

"Because a Ghostface doesn't work alone," he told her. "There's a partner."

"And right now, there's a big red arrow in my mind pointing to you," Wallace added needlessly.

"Well, let's hear the voice of my so-called partner," Indy said sarcastically while leaning back again.

Wallace looked at Mark pointedly, but he didn't move at first. He just stared at Indiana, a look of remorse on his face. But then he pulled out a small recording device and put it on the table.

"This message was left on Cotton's home answering machine shortly before the estimated time of death," Mark explained. "We have no way to be sure of who is speaking, though."

Mark then pressed play on the device, starting the recorded message over.

"Cotton, Cotton, Cotton, guess I should've called your cell first."

Indiana froze, every single part of her body shutting down at the terrifyingly familiar voice. She blinked repeatedly and shook her head as if that would clear things up as he kept going.

"I thought the cute little thing in the shower would rush out to answer this at least. Guess not. Well, she's got nothing on my Sweetheart anyway. You know, Indiana — the one you were ready to let Nancy kill just for a little interview. Hope those fifteen minutes were worth it because they're about to be up."

The sound of a long beep followed, signaling the end of the message and drowning them in silence.

"Is this a fucking joke?" Indiana asked, hating how the tears were already welling in her eyes as she glared at Mark. "Because it's not fucking funny!"

"Miss Winger—"

"Stop calling me that!" Indiana snapped at Mark. "How'd you even make that? W - what? You think hearing him is gonna make me admit to murders I didn't commit?"

"Indiana," Mark said in a louder but also calmer tone. He was watching her carefully, seeing how her eyes grew dark and her jaw was clenched with fury. "This voice was found on Cotton Weary's messages. We haven't done anything to it."

"So, you need to tell us right now," Wallace said, not caring as much about Indy's reaction. "Is it possible that—"

"No!" she shouted, hating herself as a tear slid down her cheek. "He died in my goddamn arms. That's not - he isn't the one that did this!"

"But you recognize the voice, don't you?" Mark asked.

Indiana stared at the recording device for a moment. Of course, she recognized his voice. Every day, she missed it and dreamed about hearing it again. And so with shaky hands, she reached for it and pressed the play button again without asking.

It wasn't as clear as if he was standing next to her, but it was Mickey's voice. There had been times when Indiana thought she was hearing him but knew it was her mind longing for something that would never happen. But now, it was quite evident she wasn't the only one hearing the similarities as she pressed play a third time, desperate to hear his voice again and again and again.

"Miss Winger," Wallace said, pulling the recorder back before she could listen a fourth time. "Do you believe that to be the voice of Mickey Altieri?"

Her throat felt tight, so she simply nodded.

"We'll ask again," Mark said in a gentle tone. "Is it at all possible that he survived and faked his death?"

"The details in the police report are quite sparse once the other witnesses leave you alone with him in the auditorium," Wallace added.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "No. H - he's dead. I watched him die. They - they took him off in a body bag."

"But did you see that? Or just hear about it given that you were rushed to the hospital to treat your leg?" he questioned, continuing to push the ridiculous theory. "Could Mickey Altieri still be alive, and are you aiding him in committing more Ghostface attacks?"

"I told you to stop saying his fucking name," Indiana practically spat, getting up from her chair. "I didn't kill Cotton or help in any way. And he is not alive. He can't be."

As she moved to leave the room, Wallace still kept up the interrogation. "And why can't he be?"

Indiana paused in the doorway, thinking it over. And the dark part of her — the part that was ready to steal Billy from Sidney and then later butchered him, the part that knows she would've let Mickey escape if he wasn't still a threat to Sidney and everyone else she cared about — wasn't sure what she'd do if Mickey really was alive.

Rather than answer, she left the room, and the two detectives yelled after her, trying to say that the interrogation wasn't over yet. But Indiana was deciding to end it, and she called out, "Get fucked," to them as she stormed off.

It felt like a million thoughts were racing through Indiana's mind as she practically ran from the interrogation room. And all of those thoughts were of Mickey.

Mickey was dead.

Mickey was dead and he didn't make that call.

Mickey was dead and he didn't make that call, but Indiana wished he had.

Because that would mean he wasn't dead.

Jackson was the first to spot Indiana because he'd been watching out for her, knowing she wasn't going to react well to finding out what Mark did for a living. He pushed off the side of the fake house and moved to intercept her.

"Indy—"

However, Indiana just brushed past him and kept going. She didn't even acknowledge Dewey, who'd joined the group. Jackson was confused as to why she wasn't stopping, but then they all heard the man that was coming after her.

"Indiana!" Mark shouted, jogging to catch up with her and her long stride.

So, Jackson let Indiana go, and when Mark moved past them, he reached for the collar of his blazer and kept him close. Mark's eyes widened, not expecting it after how quiet and polite Jackson had been in his own interrogation.

"You're on thin ice, Detective. And Indy doesn't need my help to drown you if you break it," he muttered, a hard look in his eyes.

Mark couldn't help but note how similar Jackson and Indiana were when angry at him — their eyes narrowed the same way and their foreheads scrunched up.

"Point taken, Mr. Martin," he replied while freeing himself to go after Indiana.

Indiana was trying her best to get lost in the maze of different houses on the set so she could hide. So, when she spotted Sidney's house, she made a break for it, ignoring Mark who continued to shout while running after her.

Did he not understand that if someone was actively running away, that meant they didn't want to be followed? Then again, his job, as it turned out, was catching people who didn't want to be caught.

"Indiana! Will you just wait?" Mark asked, following her into the house.

Indiana huffed and stomped up the stairs, somewhat wishing she was running from Stu again because she couldn't just beat the shit out of a detective without facing some consequences. His footsteps were louder, telling her he was getting closer.

"Will you stop following me?" she shouted back, not even looking over her shoulder. She got to the top of the stairs and went for the closest room, which was the bathroom. "Leave me alone — oh, shit!"

Evidently, the entirety of the Prescott house wasn't needed for filming, because Indiana flung open the door of what was meant to be a bathroom, only for the door to lead to nothing but empty air. She started to scream when she couldn't get a grip on the door, knowing she was gonna fall and hit the bare floor that was taped off and waiting for what looked like a bed to be put in.

But before she could hit the ground and likely break several bones if not her neck, warm hands wrapped around her waist and yanked her back, pulling her several feet away from the doorway. For just a moment, Indiana forgot how angry she was as she leaned against Mark's firm chest while catching her breath, looking at the door with wide eyes.

"That has to be an OSHA violation," she breathed out.

"You're okay," Mark said softly, still keeping her wrapped in his arms. "I've got you."

Then her sense finally returned to her, and despite how good it always felt to be in his arms, Indiana shoved him off and her glare returned. "No, you don't got me, Detective."

Mark sighed and shook his head. "Can we please just talk?"

Indiana took in a deep breath and had to stare at the wall instead of those green eyes. "Two minutes."

"I am sorry that I never told you I work in law enforcement—"

"This isn't about you being a fucking cop, Mark!" Then she paused. "It is a little bit about being a cop. Dewey is already one too many."

"It just - it never came up," he told her, his shoulders sagging.

"Yeah, a lot of things never came up," she scoffed. "We talked about so many things those first days in your apartment. It was like you wanted to know all you could about me, but you never asked the big questions — the ones that led back to Woodsboro. Where are you from? What are your parents like? Did you ever think about college? Is that because you've known the whole time? Because that folder was pretty fucking big to have been put together overnight."

Mark sighed and ran a hand through his messy hair. "Indiana, I didn't mean for you to find out like this."

"Oh, well, guess you can blame Cotton for that one," she said sarcastically. Then she swallowed thickly, continuing to look away. "Did you know who I was? That night in the bar? Did you already have your little file on me, or was it after?"

"Yeah," he replied quietly. "Yeah, I knew who you were, Indiana."

Indiana didn't know why, but it felt like a punch in the gut. It felt like every time she saw him was a lie. Like she was a fucking idiot for thinking he was interested in her for more than just being a Woodsboro survivor.

"Well, that's just perfect," she muttered bitterly.

"It wasn't like I was assigned to you or anything. Every officer in California knows your name, your story," he said as if that made it any better.

"But I thought—" Indiana paused, clenching her eyes shut. She hated how a tear slipped down her cheek like a little traitor. "God, for just a few hours, I thought someone cared about who I was because of my voice. That I was special because of my band and not because of what I went through."

Then she let out a huff, more hurt than angry now. "What? Did you immediately run back to your precinct and brag about fucking the Ghostface girl?"

"No! God, no, Indiana," Mark insisted, reaching for her. But she just stepped back. "I only told my partner because I had to. But I never lied about why I liked you so much — you're funny and smart and God, when you perform, I can't look away."

"You still should've told me," she whispered.

"I know and I was wrong for that," he admitted. "And there were times I wanted to, but I just didn't want to see your face fall when I did. You're the kind of person that makes smiling seem like a gift — you don't know what it's like to let someone like you down. But all that was pointless because you're here and crying anyway."

Now, Indiana scoffed, her throat getting caught as she did. "I'm not crying over you, Detective Kincaid. You're just some guy that I don't care about, and it's a good thing I found out I can't trust you before I started to actually have feelings for you."

It was Mark's turn to narrow his eyes at her, a bit of annoyance stirring over her claim. "Is that right? You don't care about me?"

"No," she said, crossing her arms.

"Look me in the fucking eyes and tell me you don't feel something for me," he ordered, taking a step closer. She took one back and ended up hitting a wall.

Slowly and reluctantly, Indiana lifted her chin to look at him, both equally as angry now. "I don't," she murmured.

But it was hard to mean it with him so close, chest brushing hers, those pretty green eyes boring into her. God, and that fucking mouth that she'd had dreams about. Just because she was angry at him didn't mean she wasn't still attracted to him.

Mark raised a challenging eyebrow, not believing her for a second. "Right. And out of the millions of people in L.A. and exciting things to do, you called me every time. You wanted me at your last concert. You wanted to watch your favorite scary movie with me. After winning four VMAs, you came to me rather than celebrate with your band. All that, Darling, for just 'some guy'? Really?"

Indiana swallowed thickly, her body growing a little hot as Mark's tone grew darker and more dominating. And every point he made was right, which she hated — it was the same argument Jackson used to get her to change her mind about going on a date in the first place.

After a tense moment of silence, Indy couldn't muster anything but, "What happened to Honey?"

"Well, I don't think you're being very sweet right now," he said while leaning a hand on the wall by her head, getting even closer.

"You're getting awfully close to someone you think is the cold-blooded killer you're looking for," she reminded him, refusing to look at his lips like she so badly wanted to. Her pride was more important than the infuriating man that was so close to her.

"I don't think you killed Cotton, Indiana," he said in a softer tone. "But I have to treat this like any other homicide investigation. I have to go by the book. And right now, the book has your name all over it."

"Hate to break it to you, but it's been about two years since I've killed anyone," she informed him, the corners of her lips turning up. "Do you hand out Junior Detective badges for that sort of streak?"

"See, now that's the kind of humor that makes Wallace think you're guilty," he said flatly.

"I don't care what Wallace thinks. But unfortunately, I care what you think."

A small smirk formed on his face, and Indy wouldn't have even noticed it if she weren't so focused on him. "So, ready to admit that I'm more than just some guy?" he asked while leaning in closer.

"Yeah, okay," she murmured, lips hovering over his as she kept eye contact. "You've been upgraded — to some useless mall cop."

Then Indiana ducked under his arm and went down the stairs of the fake Prescott house, not looking back at him as she left. Mark sighed heavily and leaned his forehead against the wall, knowing he'd ruined what little progress he'd made with her since last June.