by Kim Karr
“Nine, maybe ten.”
“Witnesses at the party say she arrived closer to ten thirty.”
“I didn’t think it was that late, but I honestly wasn’t paying attention to the time.”
The detective jots something down on his pad. “The two of you were sharing a room? Is that right?”
I nod.
“How did she seem?”
“What do you mean?”
“Her mood. How was it?”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” he repeats.
“Yes, fine.”
“And she didn’t say anything before she left that indicated she was worried or upset about anything?”
“No.” My voice is clipped.
“Are you aware of any physical relationships she might have been in?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Sexual,” he clarifies. “Are you aware of anyone she might have been involved with recently?”
“No, we weren’t that close. I already told you.”
Anxiety comes in a wave. I should tell him about Cole, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I shouldn’t know about him and Eve. I only know because Eve took me out one night under the guise of wanting to be my friend and instead warned me Cole Reynolds was off limits.
That made me curious, so one day when I was going through Cole’s email I opened one from her marked “personal.” Cole strictly forbade me from opening any of his personal emails, and yet I did.
Curiosity got the better of me.
Upon opening it, I read the steamy message over and over until realization dawned on me. I finally understood how she got the position over me.
I’m sorry for standing you up last night and I want to make it up to you. Today, I’m not wearing any panties, just the way you like it, and the thought of your hard cock inside me is all I can think about. Every time I sneak a peek at you through the glass, my clit pulses with anticipation. Every time you look at me I think about the last time you looked at me with my mouth wrapped around your cock. And every time you step away from your desk I think about the first time you bent me over it.
I’ll be in the ladies’ restroom outside your office at one. Come in, lock the door, and I’ll be waiting for you, naked, wet, and very ready.
XOXO
P.S. If you reconsider and give me that story you plan to give Vince, you can have me any way you want me.
The detective’s pencil makes a scratching noise against the paper and I direct my attention back to him. Just then he pauses with the tip of his pencil still on the pad. “Why was she going to the party?” he asks without looking up.
My hesitation must be apparent. “She’s a blogger. She went to gather information to post on her blog.”
Now he looks up. “Was.”
I look at him questioningly.
“She was a blogger.”
Is he trying to rattle me? Uncertain, I nod and swallow. And now I can’t stop the tears from slowly trickling out of my eyes.
“And you work for The Detroit Scene as well, yet you didn’t attend the party?”
“No.” I quickly wipe my tears away.
“Why?”
“I wasn’t invited.”
“But Ms. Hepburn was?”
“No, not that I’m aware of.”
More writing, and then he looks up. “You’re certain she never returned to the room?”
I draw in a deep breath. “Not while I was there.”
Although he hasn’t written that much down, he makes a show out of tucking his pencil behind his ear. “Is there anything else you can think of that could help us uncover who might have wanted to bring harm to the victim?”
The victim.
The words don’t feel like they’re real.
None of this does.
Shaken and rocked to my core, I have nothing left to say. There’s more to tell, but telling anyone about Eve’s vendetta against Jasper seems senseless. It will just target Jasper as a suspect, which is ridiculous.
The detective shifts on his feet, and I can see him better now that the light from above isn’t casting a shadow over him. He’s staring at me with a look of disdain.
Some people are adept at knowing when everything isn’t being told. Does he know I’m holding back? Am I really, though? It was a catty conversation between two women. That’s how I spin it in my head, anyway. “No. Nothing else right now.”
Pausing for another beat, he looks down, scuffs his feet in the ground, and then looks up again. “Miss Lane, your father and his business partner used to own this property, right?”
The cab I called pulls up and honks. “That’s for me.”
The detective wheels around. “Hey buddy!” he yells. “Miss Lane will be a few minutes. I’m sure you won’t mind waiting.”
The driver nods his head.
By now everyone knows who I am anyway. The one thing I wanted to avoid. The scrutiny I hoped to escape is gone. And forever more I will be known here as that girl. His daughter. The other guy’s partner’s daughter. Her. That girl.
“Sorry. Back to my question. Your father used to own this property, so you must have had access to it?”
I’m shaking my head. “No. My father no longer owns this property. The city foreclosed on it years ago for back taxes owed and never paid. And I wouldn’t have access to it anyway.”
He takes his pencil from his ear and scratches something on his pad. “But you would have something to gain by stopping the sale of this land at auction?”
Staring at him, I can feel his animosity. “I’m not sure what you mean or what you’re implying.”
He shakes it off. “It would be worth a lot to Jasper Storm.”
“Again, I’m not sure what you’re implying.”
“Never mind. Listen, I’m done for now. I have someone searching your room for anything that might help us uncover who did this to Ms. Hepburn. The hotel has agreed to give you another room, but you’ll need to wait a few more hours before retrieving your things.”
My eyes drift back to where Jasper was minutes ago but he, his car, and his buddies are gone. My heart drops and fills with loss. Chances are I’ll never see him again.
“Miss Lane?”
I snap my head back.
“It might be best if you remain in Detroit pending further investigation. The hotel or elsewhere.”
“Is that a legal request?”
“No, just a suggestion.”
“It shouldn’t be a problem. I moved back to the city earlier this year.”
“If you live here, why were you sharing a room with Ms. Hepburn?”
I thought the questions were over.
Just then the sound of a loud engine has him turning toward the taped-off area. A blocky white van stenciled with the words medical examiner across the side parks just outside it. The driver’s-side door clangs open and slams shut. A woman with her hair pulled back wearing a white coat starts walking toward the scene.
Small droplets of rain begin to fall. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to run, but I’ll be in touch.”
I’m sure you will.
“And the next time, it sounds like I might need to have a lawyer by my side,” I comment under my breath.
Good thing he is long gone and never heard me.
I’m certain he wouldn’t take kindly to idle threats.
Nor would he care.
No one cares.
SHIFTING GEARS
Jasper
THE THING ABOUT looking death in the face is that it snaps everything else into perspective.
Like how precious life is and how short it can be. I’m no Plato or Socrates, but I’m sure there is a life lesson to be shared. Suddenly things that seemed important before aren’t. Grudges held don’t seem worth holding. Forgiveness seems like something that should be given more freely.
Something bad happened to Eve. Really bad. How exactly she was killed, no one knows yet. The police are keeping the details to themselves.
Something happened to me too.
Somewhere deep within.
I can’t describe it.
I knew her.
I’d been with her.
Intimately.
And then someone not only brutally murdered her, but also buried her body right where the groundbreaking ceremony was scheduled to take place.
It’s a complete mindfuck.
Was the act premeditated?
Done with deliberation?
Max’s single word from three years ago comes to mind—sabotage.
Paranoia creeps in.
Does someone not want me to succeed?
If so, who?
Then again, in the broader scope of it all a woman is dead. I touched her lifeless body, and because of this my world seems to have shifted a little. Trying to figure out what will stop it from tilting is why I am sitting in the hotel bar.
Alone.
Contemplating my anger.
Hoping I’ve let it go.
Beginning to understand it’s not forgiveness I’m looking to give because honestly, Charlie didn’t do anything wrong.
Sins of the father shouldn’t be carried on.
And how petty is it to think they should? I mean, a woman is dead.
Dead.
And I touched her lifeless corpse.
Needing to shut out the feel of her bones, the smell of her body, the color of her pale flesh, the dirt that covered her, I squeeze my eyes shut and then press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets as if it might help me forget.
Nothing will help me forget.
I look around. People are talking. Drinking. Laughing. Having a good time. I feel a little sick about it. Feel remorse for Eve. I didn’t even know her, but she’ll never be able to do any of those things again.
Plucking the cherry from my old-fashioned, I pop it into my mouth and then push the drink aside without even taking a sip. A glance at my watch tells me it shouldn’t be much longer.
Best to keep my wits.
Too much is going on in my life for me not to.
With the toss of a twenty on the bar, I head toward the lobby. A quick stop in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the huge atrium of the Marriott alerts me that the rain has picked up. The drizzle in the night sky makes it hard to see out the wall of glass, but the twin smokestacks across the river are hard to miss.
They belong to HH Automotive Parts Plant. Steady expansion has put Hank on Detroit’s map. Being the only remaining independent replacement and modification parts plant in Detroit has earned him his fortune. His company manufactures every single engine part that is on the recall list or requires a modification for all of the remaining local automotive plants.
Ever since the Laneworth explosion, which caused the plant to burn to the ground, no one has been able to stay afloat long in that particular field. It’s tough and you have to move quickly. Something factories aren’t always able to do. Drew has been discussing with Hank HH’s ability to deliver modifications for the Storm’s super-speed accelerator module that I’m in the process of patenting, but as it stands right now the plant is not technologically equipped to handle it. It’s just another item on the list that has to be sourced outside the Detroit area.
Striding toward the front of the lobby, I stop just inside the sliding door. I lean my shoulders against the wall and prop my foot up. I might be here awhile. Chewing on the swizzle stick from my drink, I watch as people come and go.
Yellow cabs pull in, unload, and just as quickly pull out into the traffic. Each time I suck in a breath and wait, until finally a cab parks at the curb and she gets out. The covered walkway shields her from the rain, but she’s wet nonetheless.
My chest tightens when she walks past me with her head down, and that hurricane in my heart whenever she’s near seems to gain momentum. Needing to take a breath, I don’t budge from my spot. Instead, I stay motionless and watch the way she moves. Those graceful, long, and effortless strides do something to my insides.
As she crosses the lobby, I take another deep breath, and this time I know for certain that I no longer feel anger toward her. I was pretty certain I let that go when death stared me in the face. Now I know for sure.
And I should leave.
I told Will I would leave as soon as I made peace with myself.
Yet I can’t, because not only am I concerned about her, but to be honest there are things I need to know.
Okay, new plan.
First, approach her.
Second, apologize for blaming her for something she had no part of.
Third, ask her what you need to know.
Then leave.
Sounds good but heartless, because she’s crying. I hate that she’s crying. It leaves me unnerved. Out of sorts. It makes me want to take her pain away.
Still, I really should stick to the plan.
I’m too late.
She’s stopped to stand in the line for the front desk. She wipes her tears from her cheeks before she looks forward. The person in front of her walks away. She’s waved to the desk. When she approaches the clerk, she starts talking immediately, but the conversation doesn’t seem to be going well. She pulls a credit card from her wallet, hands it over. The clerk runs it, frowns, shakes her head, and then gives it back.
With signs of distress on her face, she tells the clerk something. The clerk replies. Makes a call. She waits. Her hair is loose. The smooth ponytail she wore earlier is gone and has been replaced with those mounds of curls that move with every shake of her head. Those same curls that I have the oddest urge to run my fingers through and get lost in. She talks some more to the clerk, but nothing seems to be resolved and she walks away.
Everything about her is delicate. The slope of her neck, her slender arms, the slight curve of her hips, her long legs. Even when she falls into the armchair in obvious defeat, she does so with grace.
The white sheer blouse she’s wearing does nothing to cover up the chill she must be feeling. Her nipples protrude through the thin fabric and I hate myself for noticing. Still, my eyes don’t stop there. Instead they shift upward. As they sweep the creamy expanse of her chest and neck, fire explodes beneath the surface of my skin at the thought of touching her—skimming my lips across that softness and feeling it beneath the harshness of my fingertips.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Feeling like a perv for thinking this way about my childhood friend, I shake my dirty thoughts away. Since watching her seems to be fucking with my head, it’s time to go forward and execute the plan.
On a sigh full of doubt, I remove the swizzle stick from my mouth and push away from the wall to head toward Charlotte. I’m not even halfway when she lifts her gaze and our eyes meet. As absurd as it sounds, I feel electrified, like a current of energy is sparking between her and me. The feeling takes hold of me and draws me nearer.
Step by step my brain is telling me to turn around and meet up with the guys, who are probably drinking away the events of today right now, but my body is acting on its own volition. Moving without thought or consequence.
The closer I get, the more clearly I can see her. She has to be the hottest thing both north and south of the Detroit River.
I hate that I’m even thinking that.
She was my best friend, for fuck’s sake.
When I stop in front of her, that gorgeous face twists and her hands start shaking.
Is she afraid of me?
Fuck, I hope not.
“Jasper,” she breathes softly.
Immediately my get to the point and get out of Dodge plan goes right out the window. She seems to be in a fragile state and the last thing I want to do is compound that.
Still, the tension is already thick and I have no idea how to ease it. Without overthinking this fucked-up situation, I plop down in the chair across from her. When my eyes land on all those dirty-blond curls and eyes the color of the summer sky, I have to take a deep breath and wait for the fog in my brain t
o clear.
She squeezes her eyes closed but quickly opens them, and then stares at me as if waiting for the sky to fall.
I hate that she feels that way.
Finally, I force myself to stick with my plan. “Charlotte, we need to talk.”
Very slowly she nods in agreement, but the fact that her entire body is shaking causes that storm in my heart to spread to my lungs and gut.
I can’t stand this feeling.
It’s eating me up.
I just want it gone.
And so I deviate from my plan.
“You’re trembling. Are you cold?” I ask without thinking. My need to take care of the little girl who used to be my best friend is taking hold of me, and digging in, faster than I am able to repel the urge.
She wraps her arms around herself. “I’m fine. I just need to warm up a bit.”
Again I don’t think before speaking. “Why don’t you go to your room and change and then let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
What the fuck? Why would I ask her that? Coffee is not part of the plan.
Her laugh is unexpected, as are the sobs that follow.
No longer worried about sticking to my fucking plan, I lurch forward. “What is it?”
She shakes it off. “Nothing. It’s just that I can’t go to my room until the police have finished their search, and I can’t get another room while I wait for mine to be searched because—” She waves it off. “Never mind, it’s not important.”
Concern suffuses me. “Why can’t you get another room?”
Taking a few moments to compose herself, she wipes under her eyes and then sits up straighter. “It doesn’t matter. What did you want to talk about?”
There’s no way I can let this go. “Tell me, Charlotte. Why can’t you get another room?”
Her lips tilt upward. “It’s silly really. Cole fired me today and withdrew his hold on the room. For some reason my bank won’t allow me to charge another one. I’ll take care of it on Monday. And besides, I didn’t really have to spend the night here anyway. I just want to get my things before I leave.”
Anger surges through me. “That asshole fired you?”
She nods, and that fake glimmer of a smile disappears. It’s immediately replaced with the weight of the world. “It’s to be expected.”
