Page 87 of It Runs in the Family

His lips pressed together. “Go take a shower, and I’ll make some calls. Hopefully, I’ll have some answers by the time you get out.”

“I still don’t know if I can trust you.”

“Iris,” he said, giving me a beseeching look. “I swear to you that you’re safe, but if it makes you feel better, I really will wait outside.”

I studied him for a moment. He had seemed concerned about the break-in, although he might be a good actor. And if he’d wanted to take advantage of me, he could have done it on Friday night. Mrs. Whittleman said he’d been in my apartment for less than nine minutes. That didn’t seem long enough for him to have done anything nefarious.

“Okay,” I said, some of my wariness fading. “Thanks for trying to find out something.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I don’t have any contacts down here, but I’ll try some back channels.” He tipped his head toward the bathroom door. “Go. The sooner you get done, the sooner we can do something.”

He didn’t have contacts down here? What did that mean? Then again, in T-Birds, he’d told me he was from Dallas. So, what was his brother doing in Chaffney?

Then I got stuck on the phrasing he’d used—he’d said “we” would be doing something. He was going to let me help him? What cop let a civilian help them with an investigation? Maybe he meant we could exchange information.

It was probably stupid to trust him, but at the moment, he was the only person offering answers.

I headed to my room, dismayed to see most of my clothes had been ripped out of my closet and tossed all over the room. My bedding had been stripped and dumped in a pile on the floor, the mattress itself was askew and ripped to shreds. But my thirty-year-old television was still intact on top of my dresser.

I felt like I was going to be sick. How was I going to replace everything?

But then I saw the Maurice shirt Hannah wanted me to burn—a white eyelet top with slightly puffy short sleeves and a sweetheart neckline—peeking out from under a cardigan. I snatched it up along with a pair of jeans and clean undergarments. My apartment might be trashed, but at least I’d look good.

I headed to the bathroom and shot a quick glance into the kitchen and living room but didn’t see Boone. Had he decided to wait outside after all?

Had he left?

I stepped over broken dishes as I headed to the front door, intending to lock it, but I heard Boone’s muffled voice on the other side, saying, “Can you look into it and get back to me?”

It sounded like he was making the calls he’d claimed he’d make outside the front door. I could lock the door and keep him out, but I figured he couldn’t do any more damage to the place, and I’d be locked in the bathroom.

Thankfully, there wasn’t much of a mess in the bathroom other than a few tampons scattered on the floor, and a half-empty bottle of a shower gel that had dried out my skin but I was too cheap to throw away. After I double-checked that the door was locked, I stripped and got in the shower.

I skipped washing my hair since I’d washed it Saturday afternoon, so I was out in less than five minutes. I got dressed, put my hair up in a messy bun, applied a coat of mascara and called it good.

When I opened the bathroom door, I stopped in my tracks. Boone was in my living room, picking up a broken plate and dumping it into a trash bag.

He looked up when he heard the door open. He watched me for a couple of seconds, then said, “I was done with my calls, so I figured I’d start cleaning up.”

A bad guy wouldn’t clean up my mess, would he?

“You don’t have to do that, Boone.”

He shrugged as he picked up a broken drinking glass and dropped it into the bag. “I didn’t have anything else to do.”

I could guarantee the only cousin who would have cleaned up my apartment because they “didn’t have anything else to do” was Garrett. Maybe it was a cop thing.

But dammit, it made him sexier.

“Did you find out anything?”

His lips pressed together. “No. But I’m not giving up on it. This seems like an in-person task.”

“You want to go out to a crime scene?” I shook my head. “I guess you might be able to get away with it since you’re a cop, but how will you explain me?”

“I won’t. You won’t be there.”

“I thought you were worried the guys who did this might come back.” I flung my hand toward my destroyed sofa.