Including me.
“Detective Brown. It’s been a while. Do you have news about David?”
Her eyes narrow slightly as she examines my face.
I bet she can smell the fear on me. The woman’s intelligence is frightening.
“We’re not here about that, Ms. Peterson.”
“No?”
She waits for me to say more, but my tongue is pinched firmly between my teeth. Kage’s warning about talking to the police is too fresh for me to start blabbering.
When I don’t break under her laser beam stare, she adds, “We’re here about the shooting at La Cantina last night.”
I don’t make a peep. I do, however, notice that there’s more than one law enforcement car parked at the curb out on the street.
Chris leans against his sheriff’s cruiser with his arms folded over his chest, staring hard at me over the tops of his mirrored sunglasses.
Shit.
Realizing that Detective Brown and I could stand there in silence forever, the paunchy officer makes a friendly suggestion. “Why don’t we go inside and talk?”
“No.”
He looks surprised by the forcefulness of my answer. Detective Brown, however, doesn’t.
“Is there something you’d like to tell us, Ms. Peterson?”
I bet those sharp ears of hers can hear the faint screams of my bowels, but I manage to keep a straight face when I answer. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
She shares a knowing glance with her colleague. He crosses his arms over his barrel chest and gives me a new look. One that says he didn’t take me seriously before, but he does now.
Obviously, Detective Brown has been telling him stories.
In her book, I might look innocent, but I’m not.
I wonder if she thinks I chopped David into tiny pieces and fed him into a wood chipper.
She says, “There was a shooting last night at La Cantina. Four people were killed.”
Pause. A daring stare. I say nothing. She continues.
“What can you tell us about it?”
“Am I under arrest?”
She seems taken aback by that, but quickly recovers her composure. “No.”
“Then perhaps you could direct your attention to the open investigation of my missing fiancé, and come back when you have something.”
I start to shut the door, but the other officer says, “We know you were at the restaurant last night.”
I stop, draw a steadying breath, and look at him. “I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced. What’s your name?”
He unfolds his arms and casually rests a hand on the butt of the firearm strapped to the utility belt at his waist. I get the impression it’s a ploy to intimidate me. Instead, it royally pisses me off.
There’s nothing more I hate than a bully.
He points to the badge on his chest. “O’Donnell.”
Keeping my tone pleasant, I say, “Officer O’Donnell, take your colleague and get off my porch. Unless you have new information about the disappearance of my fiancé, I have nothing to say to either one of you.”
Detective Brown says, “We could make you come to the station with us to have a chat.”
“Only if you’re arresting me. Which you’ve already said you’re not.”
Boy, she really doesn’t like me. Her look could peel the paper right off the walls.
“Why would you refuse to cooperate with us if you have nothing to hide?”
“Citizens are under no obligation to speak to the police. Even if they’re accused of a crime. Even if they’re in jail. Am I right?”
She says, “A judge can force you to talk to us.”
I’m pretty sure that’s a stretch, but considering I’m not a constitutional attorney, I don’t know.
Still, we’re playing chicken here.
I won’t blink first.
I say, “I don’t see a judge on my porch. Have a nice day, Detective.”
Heart hammering, I shut the door in their faces. Then I stand there shaking and trying to get control of myself, until I hear Chris’s voice from the other side of the door.
“Nat. Open up. I know you’re standing there.”
“Go away, Chris.”
“I have your purse.”
I freeze in horror.
Oh my god. My purse! I left it at the restaurant!
Don’t panic. You haven’t done anything wrong.
Hurry up and make up a lie anyway.
I open the door and look at him, standing there with my small black clutch in his hand. My mind goes a million miles per hour trying to figure out what to do.
When I don’t say anything, Chris sighs. “Four people were killed last night, Nat. Six others were injured. If you know anything, you really need to talk to the police.”
Detective Brown and Officer O’Donnell are out at the curb by their squad car, watching us talk. I know they sent Chris in because we used to date, and they think he might have a better chance of getting information out of me.
Which makes me wonder what he’s told them about our relationship.
What he thinks about our relationship. Does he actually believe he has some kind of influence over me, the girl he dated for a few weeks last summer who he never even had sex with?
Men.
“I don’t know anything.”
He holds up my purse and stares at me. “Really? So you weren’t at La Cantina last night? This just walked out of your house and showed up at the scene of a crime?”
I get the sense there’s no video of me at the restaurant. That the purse—with my ID and phone inside—is the only thing placing me there. Detective Brown would definitely have used security camera footage as her trump card to scare me into talking, but she didn’t.
Fingers crossed, because although I might not be legally obligated to talk to the police, I have no idea if lying to them is a crime.
Looking Chris in the eye, I say, “I accidentally left that handbag on the counter at the dry cleaners the other day. When I went back for it, it was gone.”
He examines my face in silence for a moment. “You’re telling me that someone stole your purse and kept all your stuff in it when they went out for dinner?”
“I have no idea what happened to it between then and now. May I have it back, please?”
His sigh is heavy. “Nat. Come on. What the heck is going on with you?”
“I’m just trying to get my purse back.”
His voice gains an edge. “Yeah? So you refusing to talk has nothing to do with your neighbor?”
My stomach clenches. I swallow, feeling my hands tremble, wishing I were the kind of person who could lie with confidence. Sloane would’ve already ripped him a new one and kicked him to the curb.
Be Sloane.
I lift my chin, pull back my shoulders, and hold out my hand. “Give me my purse.”
“I knew he was trouble, that guy. You’re too trusting of people, Nat. You need to be more careful.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about. Give me my purse.”
“You don’t know who I’m talking about? Does this ring a bell?”
From inside his jacket pocket, he pulls a folded piece of paper. Tucking my clutch under his arm, he unfolds the paper and hands it to me.
It’s a black-and-white pencil sketch of a man’s head and face. Despite my horror, I have to admit that the resemblance is remarkable.