Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
“I don’t even know anyone in the city legislature.”
“Then, ma’am, I don’t know what to tell you. We’re just doing our job, and right now our job is to search your home.” He gestures toward a couch in my living room. “You’re welcome to sit down.”
I laugh humorlessly. “You’re inviting me to sit down on my own fucking couch?”
“Ma’am, I—”
“Don’t ma’am me, Detective.” I poke at his chest hard. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“If that’s the case, you have nothing to hide.”
Oh my God. That’s just what Officer King said. This is some 1984 bullshit.
Aus has finally gotten inside, and he steps beside me. “Do they have a warrant?”
I throw the paper into his hands. “Look it over.”
Aus skims it. His eyes twitch slightly, as though something he’s reading is particularly troubling. He then hands it back to me. “I’m afraid it’s valid. There’s nothing we can do about it.”
I throw my hands in the air. “I am innocent.”
“I know that, hon, but—”
“There are no buts about it.” I pace around Detective Wheeler. “I got a bogus parking ticket a year ago that I immediately appealed. A year ago, Detective. I still haven’t heard back from that. Yet you were able to get a warrant within a few hours? I wasn’t even warned.”
“If you’d been warned, you could hide evidence.”
I grit my teeth. “There is no. Evidence. To hide.”
“Then, as I said, you have nothing to worry about, ma’am.” Wheeler takes the warrant back and puts it in his long jacket pocket. “All I can tell you is that the murder of Kinsey Blackwood is one of utmost importance to the Chief of Police. He put it straight at the top of our list of priorities. That’s why we’re here tonight.”
My heart sinks. There really is nothing I can do.
Then I swallow. Because the silver tennis shoes are still here. The cops will find them. I’ve already explained why I had them, but now my DNA is in them.
It’s circumstantial. They can’t get me on a pair of shoes.
Worst case I get a slap on the wrist for stealing them from Wick without asking permission.
I run my hands through my hair. “This place feels soiled to me. I don’t want to stay here tonight. Can I go to my bedroom and pack a bag for the evening?”
“One second.” Detective Wheeler pulls out a walkie-talkie. “Is the master bedroom clear?”
Some incomprehensible static.
“All right, copy that.” Wheeler pockets the radio. “Yes, your bedroom is clear. You can pack a bag if that’s what you’re more comfortable with.”
I fucking hate how calm this man is being. It’s making me seem erratic by comparison.
But I should be erratic. This is my home, damn it! And I did nothing wrong!
I swallow it down.
Aus is right. There’s nothing we can do for now. Maybe I’ll sue the shit out of the city for signing a warrant with so little evidence to back it up. Right now, though, my only option is to comply.
I walk up my stairs to my bedroom and pack a carry-on full of undies, socks, a few outfits, pajamas, and toiletries. I glance over to the corner where I stripped off my clothes before my shower—and my brief encounter with Aus—earlier this evening.
What a different world I lived in the last time I was in this room.
I kicked off the silver tennis shoes, and they landed…
Where?
I don’t know, because they aren’t here.
Seized by the cops, no doubt.
In the corner where I tossed them without thinking, poor little Dodo is curled up, her eyes wide and her little body shaking. I scoop her up and do my best to soothe her.
If only I could soothe myself.
My heart thumps against my sternum.
Am I fucked or am I fucked?
I try to steady my breathing. The shoes are the only thing they have against me. I’m sure Wick’s place was also searched, along with the homes of anyone else who might be a suspect in Kin’s murder.
But I can’t calm myself. The walls are closing in around me. The weight of everything is crushing me.
It’s a feeling I know.
But one I never wanted to feel again.
I haven’t felt it since my stepfather was alive.
I’ve seen my father plow the land with our tractor a million times.
But now, as I sit here with a slew of controls—levers, pedals, switches—in front of me that might as well be written in Portuguese, I have no idea where to start. The tractor is bigger than I remember from the ground. The seat is too wide, the steering wheel too stiff beneath my hands.
I close my eyes and try to remember what Dad used to do.
He always checked something first. Fuel? No, Emmy took care of that yesterday.
The choke. That’s it. He’d pull it out slightly before starting.
I recreate the motion as I remember him doing it, my fingers tripping over it a little before I can get a good grip, and then turn the key.