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JACK OLIVER
What do you call a pig with skin problems?
A wart-hog.
* * *
My eyes burned as I stared, unseeing, at my laptop. Staring at her on-screen was the only thing keeping me sane since leaving her presence. It was playing a loop of Arizona moving down the street with two men after the destruction at the museum. Why had they been there that night? And who were they?
The night before, I’d had the restaurant put both men’s forks in evidence bags, intending to run their DNA through the police database. I was good at my job, and that’s what had allowed me to rise quickly through the ranks. So why were the evidence bags still lying on my backseat, and why hadn’t I forwarded the security film to my partner?
Because of Arizona.
I dated my fair share of girls through high school and college, but I’d never allowed one to impede my job. Especially one I’d only talked to a couple of times but who affected me to my core. Yet here I was, my finger hovering over the delete button on my laptop. If I believed for even a second that she was guilty, she would be in cuffs. But I knew in my gut she wasn’t part of a terrorist ring or a group of thieves.
The museum had confirmed that morning they couldn’t find any unaccounted-for items that could have been sold on the black market, nor had there been damage to any of the museum’s more valuable pieces. They also made it clear they were eager for our investigation to wrap up so they could get a crew in to repair the storeroom and put the whole saga behind them.
So either a catastrophic accident of some type had occurred that night, or the world’s dumbest criminals had attacked the museum. So, was Arizona in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or did she cause the accident? More importantly, did it matter?
The museum wanted this wrapped up ASAP. My partner had lost interest once we determined it wasn’t a terrorist attack or a heist, and my boss had dropped a new case on my desk that morning with a comment about dropping everything else and making it a priority. I was the only person doggedly running down every lead to solve the case.
I wanted to believe it was because I was just that dedicated to my cases. But what other reason did I have to keep seeing Arizona if I closed the case out? It was pretty clear that her guys didn’t want me to stick around after they hauled us apart and dragged her out of the restaurant yesterday. The last thing I wanted to do was cause problems for her and the people she cares about. Plus, deep down, I knew I wanted answers not for my report, but for myself.
The blood at the scene had been hers. According to the report, the amount of blood was high enough to indicate a fatality. She wasn’t dead though, and she didn’t seem to be recovering from major trauma, which was an impossibility. Or was it?
I slammed my laptop closed and tossed it in the backseat. Looking out the car’s windshield, I watched the happy visitors entering the museum. My skin itched incessantly, and my body ached feverishly. When I’d got up this morning, I thought I might be coming down with the flu, but my symptoms had eased slightly since parking outside her work. The desperate need to be near her, and with her, was almost unbearable. Unable to sit still any longer, I got out of my car and headed inside.
* * *
It didn’t takeme long to find her. It was like she drew me to her, and I came like a moth to a flame. She was mopping up an unidentified liquid that had been spilled on the white and brown marble floors. It didn’t look right. She looked like she should be holding a scepter for a coronation ceremony, not a mop.
She looked exhausted. It seemed neither of us had slept well the night before. For a moment, I felt pity for her and wanted to take the broom from her hand and mop up the mess for her. But then I remembered she was hiding things from me, and I was determined to get my answers.
“We need to talk.” There was no point beating around the bush.
Her shoulders tensed at my voice, but she didn’t look up from her task. “I’m working, Jack. How about when I get off?”
“I’ve already spoken to your manager. I told them I needed your help with a few things regarding the case, and they agreed to give you the rest of the day off. Grab your stuff, and let’s go.” I hated how rude I sounded, but I was trying to keep my emotions turned off.
I thought she would argue, but she only shrugged. “All right, give me a minute.” Disappearing into the back with the mop and bucket, she returned a few minutes later with a small backpack and her jacket.
I jerked my head toward the front door of the museum, and she followed me outside without a single word. Reaching my car, I opened the passenger door for her—I wasn’t a monster—before making my way to the driver’s side.
I carefully pulled out of the parking space and made my way to the shoreline about fifteen minutes outside the city limits. The beach was nearly empty this time of day at the secluded little cove I favored. It was quiet with minimal distractions, which was exactly what I wanted for the conversation weighing on my mind.
Arizona finally spoke, “Please tell me I don’t have to dig my own grave. I’m too tired.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, not understanding her.
“You showed up at my work angry, ordered me to your car, and then drove me to a secluded place outside the city. I’ve seen this show and know how it ends.” She said it all in a deadpan tone.
An unexpected chuckle rumbled in my chest. “I’m not planning to kill you. I just want to talk.”
She raised a single brow. “Uh-huh. That’s what they always say.”
“Come on, let’s walk out on the sand.”
With a nod, she grabbed her backpack and pushed open her door before I could get out. I followed her out onto the warm sand. Finding a spot near the water, but where the sand was still dry, we sat down, both of us staring out at the crashing ocean waves.
