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“There are some squad cars already on the way, and a crime scene investigator. You know your vehicle is the crime scene and we’ll have to bring it in.
Shitshitshit!
“I want a Charger to drive,” I grumble. I sound like a petulant child. Do I care? Not at all.
Some asshole spray-painted all over my car, and probably wants to cut me up for some sick, depraved thing we’ve yet to figure out, and I’m back in a city I couldn’t wait to get out of. I think I have very good reasons to be petty.
“You got it, Detective, there’ll be one waiting for you after you finish up there and get back to the station. And stay in the damn house until the units arrive!”
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. This is the sergeant’s way of saying he’s sorry. “Yes, sir.”
The call disconnects.
I stand there with the phone still held in my hand, in the middle of this historic mansion, with a man who completely owned my body not even an hour before.
I can feel Ignatius’ eyes on me, waiting, watching. Observing.
I turn my back on him. How could everything go from what happened between us upstairs in his bedroom not long ago, to the horrors that brought us together practically banging on his door looking for me?
I need a moment. I don’t want him to see the vulnerability that’s pouring from my eyes, or the residual fear that clawed gouges into me when I saw the message on my car. I need a moment to gather my false bravado and my faux indifference.
Because inside I’m not brave, and I’m so far from indifferent. Because everything I ran away from has found me, beckoned me back. It left its calling card at Ignatius Beauchamp’s home.
