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I literally shoo him, wishing Nut and Juice would get their lazy butts off the couch to bark or nip at his shoes or something. But they’re fast asleep, so I block the door as best I can because there’s no way in hell he’s coming into my home.
I almost say that my laptop’s not missing anymore, but I manage to bite my tongue. I don’t want to help this jerk of an officer when he completely dismissed me when I needed his help.
“I’m afraid it’s much bigger than that now, Miss Woodstock,” he says, not moving. “It’s come to our attention that your laptop wasn’t the only thing stolen that night.”
I stop, blinking. “What?”
Connor didn’t say anything about stealing anything else. Just my bag.
Detective Carter nods, looking past me into my home like he still wants to come in. “The Black Rose was also taken.”
I laugh in disbelief. “No, it wasn’t. We all saw it on the stage. It was literally the first thing they checked after making sure J.A. Fox was okay. Remember? They left me spreadeagle on the floor, not giving a shit if I was hurt or flashing my kitty cat to the whole world?”
His eyes flicker to my legs, and I step behind the door, using it as a shield, but even with a slab of wood between us, I suddenly feel very naked. Holding up a hand, I reach over to my coat rack and snag the longest thing available, a knee-length red trench coat that I bought last year and haven’t worn since. Pulling it on, I step out of my house and knot the belt around my waist, crossing my arms over my chest to glare at him.
“Eyes up here, Detective,” I growl, literally snapping my fingers in his face when he glances back down, seeming disappointed that I’m covered to my knees.
His gaze moves back up my body to meet my eyes, but he offers no apology. In fact, I think that smarmy smile is supposed to be charming. As if. “Of course. Actually, the painting you saw was a replica, a fake.”
“Gee, thanks for the mansplain. If you’ll remember, I write for a living, so it’d be reasonable to assume that I have a grasp on the English language. Although, I would expect a police officer to have observational skills to read people, and you apparently have none,” I muse. Snidely, I tell him, “I know what a replica is.”
While I’m busting his balls about his rude assumptions, my brain is twisting and turning over what he actually said. But he must’ve been hit on the head one too many times during car chases or something because he’s making zero sense. The painting was right there the whole time. Unless . . .
“Are you sure it was the original on display in the first place? If it was a replacement, perhaps the original was taken before the dinner began?”
Detective Carter shakes his head. “We believe the lights going out was a cover for the painting to be replaced with the reproduction. And your laptop is somehow connected.”
“Wait a fucking minute! You think I had something to do with it?” I say in shock. “How the fuck—”
He holds his hands out in a ‘calm down’ manner. “No, no. We don’t think that. But you mentioned a security guard.”
I roll my eyes, even though I feel like I’m quickly moving into the realm of pantomime as the rest of my brain whirls with the fears I’m developing. “Oh, now you want to listen to me?”
Everything clicks, and I realize that he’s looking for Connor!
He’s talking about Connor stealing The Black Rose!
Well, he did steal my laptop. He openly admitted that. Well, after I jumped on his back. But is that connected to his maybe stealing The Black Rose too?
No. No way. There’s no way he would’ve done that. J.A. Fox must have had a replica on the stage, and someone stole it another time. Or she’s lying. Or she never had it authentically. Or . . .
What if he did? a tiny voice whispers somewhere deep in the dark shadows of my mind where demons like fear and mistrust live. One painting pays for a lot more townhouse living than a laptop. And he hasn’t exactly been out picking pockets every day since you met.
I have a mental flash of Connor telling me all sorts of interesting details about the art at the museum and realize that maybe . . . he could do that. Stealing my laptop when he didn’t want the manuscript never did make sense, but I somehow didn’t think about that too deeply.
Because you were too busy fucking him . . . and falling for him.
Detective Carter is looking at me expectantly. Shit, he must have said something else. “Sorry?”
