Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
On the surface, today looks like any other.
Lazy afternoon light spilling through town, people strolling around running errands. The town square’s the beating heart of Redhaven.
It’s not unusual to see half the folks who live here passing through—and if a mild-mannered police officer wants to keep an eye on things, it’s the best place to perch.
What I’m watching is The Rookery.
Delilah hasn’t come out today, not while I’ve been on shift.
I don’t know why that bothers me, besides the general concern for how she’s holding up.
She’s not a suspect.
A nagging voice in the back of my head wonders if she should be.
If I let a pretty face and her damsel-in-distress defensive vibe cloud my common sense.
It’d be pretty damn clever.
Skip town, run away from the Big Apple before she gets pegged for murder. Bring the body with her. Strip the ID and dump the girl’s corpse in the house before calling it in and claiming she found Jane Doe there.
And here I fell for it because I just wasn’t seeing her as conniving enough.
Not when all I see is another woman caught in an impossible predicament, proud and stubborn and refusing to see it.
My first thought wasn’t suspicion.
Maybe I can save this one.
That’s what I thought instead.
Fuck.
Delilah’s nothing like Celeste, and she made it crystal clear she doesn’t need any saving. I’d almost think she was too calm at the crime scene.
Except I know she wasn’t, deep down.
All those little telltale markers of fear and sharp words that made me wish I could hold her trembling fingers and banish the stark fear in her eyes.
Besides, I’d like to think I’ve been at this long enough to be a mighty good judge of character.
That girl’s guarded.
Not guilty.
She’s also currently emerging from the sliding double doors of our local hardware store, which explains why I never saw her leave The Rookery. From the fat bags she’s hauling, she’s been up and running errands since before my patrol shift even started.
Damn.
Also, she’s got company.
Double damn.
Ulysses Arrendell hovers like a hawk as he helps grab several bulging bags from her hands with a warm smile. Together, they make their way to the Kia parked across the square at The Rookery.
She’s smiling back, too.
Laughing, shaking her head like he’s the harmless town ham and not a walking scandal waiting to happen.
Is that a hint of jealousy?
Fuck, yes.
I also don’t care that it shouldn’t be searing my blood.
I’m eyeballing the pretty boy weirdo fit to break my face.
Don’t like that.
Don’t like that shit one bit.
It’s not my place, I know. She’s the new girl and she’s gonna meet people, make friends. If it were anyone else except this fresh-faced vampire fuck boy—
Fuck!
The growl I’m holding in scrapes my throat.
So does the urge to dart out of the patrol car and zoom over for a little talk.
No abusing the badge for personal reasons, of course.
But is it really personal?
Or is it my cop instinct screaming danger at the top of its lungs?
Even if I’m the only crazy asshole who thinks so.
If I shared my thoughts about the Arrendells with anyone else, they’d send me straight to a shrink, or maybe put me on leave.
I come two seconds away from giving in.
Two damn seconds from making up a half-cocked reason to walk over there and grunt hello, even if it’s just to tell Delilah what she already knows: I have no new intel on the case, and I probably won’t for a while.
Even if I really want to remind pretty boy I’m there.
Luckily, my phone saves me from making a bad decision, vibrating violently on the dash. A quick glance at the caller ID says it’s the coroner’s office.
Well, shit.
Maybe I’ll have some new info after all.
It probably says a lot that they’re calling me and not Chief Bowden.
I snag my phone and swipe it. “Lieutenant Graves.”
“Lucas?” The friendly voice of Dr. Nicholas Morales comes over the line. We don’t work with him much, small place like this with no active murder cases, but he’s always professional and a little chatty when we cross paths. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything? We’ve got her.” I sit up sharply in my seat as he finishes. “We’ve got a positive ID and we’ve figured out the cause of death.”
Emma Santos.
Hours later, I still can’t get that name out of my head.
Emma Santos of Los Angeles, California. Only twenty-two.
Hell of an age to die.
I’m off street patrol and back at the office, closing out my day by once again stealing my captain’s desk—this time to work on my case reports. Her name is right there on the top of the page, prints of my crime scene photos clipped on top. Got the autopsy report from Morales via email, too, along with a few photos.
Preliminary toxicology results confirmed.
Drug overdose. Cocaine.
Enough blow in her system to drop a bison. It just stopped her heart cold, right there on Delilah’s shiny new floor.