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“I can’t work with psychiatric patients.” She waved her hand in the air. “Something about me being a little psychotic once upon a time. A lack of remorse. Yadda, yadda, yadda.”
“You know legal work and medical work kind of have similar rules, right?”
“You don’t do legal work. You surveil stuff. You detect. You investigate.”
I shook my head. “I do legal work. For the police department. When I’m not ‘surveilling stuff.’” I drew air quotes around her ridiculous phrase.
“Oh, well, I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.” She walked across the room and slipped her feet into her high heels. Then she walked back to the desk, picked up her gun, flicked the safety, and put it in her purse.
“Shelly,” I said slowly.
She raised her eyes to meet mine. “What?”
“Is that gun legal?”
She nodded. “I have a permit.”
“And you know how to fire it?”
“Of course. And I can fire it accurately. With precision. Perfect aim. I’m a gun prodigy, they told me at the firing range.” She said it all without even cracking a smile. She was serious, and that was disturbing.
She hitched her purse strap onto her shoulder. She was still wearing the dress I’d zipped for her earlier today. Suddenly, a vision of her almost naked flashed in my mind’s eye again.
“You can’t work for me, Shelly,” I said.
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She strode toward the door.
“Shelly,” I called out. “Did you drive here?”
“Of course.”
“Where did you park?”
“By the street. Why?”
“I’ll walk out with you.”
She patted her purse. “I’m safe.”
“I’ll still walk out with you.”
She smiled, and I thought it was a true, genuine smile. But with Shelly you never could really tell. “That would be nice of you,” she said softly.
She was quiet all the way down the elevator. She didn’t say a single word as she walked to her car.
When she opened her car door, she turned to face me. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Shelly, you can’t work for me.”
“Okay.” She smiled and shook her head.
Then she got in her car and left. I stood, somewhat shell-shocked, and looked at where her car had been. Then I called building maintenance and left a message for them to install a better lock on my office door first thing in the morning. Something that was Shelly-proof.
Then tomorrow I was going to kill Mason Peterson with my bare hands.
Chapter 7
Clark
