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She wrapped her hands around the foam cup in an effort to keep them warm and returned his gaze evenly. She had nothing to hide, except a truth he just wouldn’t believe. And they couldn’t hold her here forever, not without charging her with something. She just had to be patient. Just had to hope Doyle was okay.
“Tell me again,” he said, voice monotone, bored. The total opposite of what his sharp brown eyes portrayed. “What happened when Constables Dicks and Ryan took you to the motel?”
She sighed. “I’ve told you that five times already. Do you want me to lie? Would you believe me if I did?”
“What I want is for you to tell me the truth.”
“I have,” she said, resisting the temptation to look away.
“And you have no idea what attacked your friends and the two constables?”
“No.” She hesitated, swallowing. “I told you, I heard a strange noise, then the screaming started, and I just got out of there.”
“And you’ve been on the run ever since?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you be?”
A hint of amusement touched his expression. “Maybe. So why go back to your house?”
“I told you, I’d left my purse back there.”
He regarded her steadily, his brown eyes cold. Not buying a word, she thought with a chill.
“We spoke to your neighbors. They reported you being accompanied by a tall, dark-haired man.”
She silently cursed the old biddy across the road. Chelsea had appointed herself the local neighborhood watch, and there wasn’t a thing that went on that she didn’t know about. Shame the old girl hadn’t been on guard duty the night the manarei had attacked, she thought bitterly. Maybe Helen would still be alive.
“Did you ask her if she was wearing her specs at the time?”
The detective didn’t bite, merely continued to regard her. “Were you at the house with a man?”
“Damn it, why is this even important? Something killed my friend and your constables, and you’re sitting here questioning me about whether or not I went back to the house with a man? How much sense does that make?”
She slammed a hand down on the table. The sound rebounded sharply, ringing through her ears. She licked her lips, wondering why she suddenly felt so light-headed. Lack of food, perhaps.
The detective raised an eyebrow, the only sign he even noticed her outburst. “Did you know Helen Smith was insured?”
She blinked. “Yeah? So?”
“Did you know you were the major beneficiary of that policy?”
His implication took several seconds to sink in. Her gut churned, and she clenched her fists around the coffee cup so hard the sides collapsed and the hot brown liquid spouted everywhere.
She ignored it, ignored her burned hands, and stared at the detective. “You think that I …?” Her voice shook with the fury she was barely controlling. “For money? For a few lousy dollars?”
“It’s more than a few lousy dollars.” His voice was dry. He regarded her for a second longer, then leaned across to the cabinet near the door and snagged some paper, offering it to her. “It’s close to half a million dollars.”
“I wouldn’t care if it was a million. Or two. Or even three. I’d rather have Helen than any amount of money, believe me.” She snatched the paper from him and wiped her hands.
“And yet you were in serious trouble financially, weren’t you?”
Only because she still had three clients owing her for work she’d done on their houses, but there was nothing unusual about that, not in the building trade. “Last I heard, that wasn’t a crime.”
“But a half a million dollars would set you up financially, wouldn’t it?”
She thrust her hands under the table, hiding the heat that was beginning to dance across them. Heat she was tempted, so tempted, to let loose. “If you’re going to charge me, then charge me,” she said, her voice so low and tight with anger it was little more than a harsh whisper. “If you’re not, stop asking me stupid questions, get off your fat ass and start looking for the real killer. Because she hasn’t finished yet.”
He raised the eyebrow again, seemingly unmoved by her hostility. “She? What makes you think the murderer is a she?”
