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“Might I suggest you wait in the observation room?” Detective Franklin wears fresh jeans and a shirt that pulls apart at the buttons when he exhales and his stomach fills out the fabric.
He’s not a bad guy, I’m sure of it. He’s not even all that lazy. He’s just weak. And I long ago decided I’m done dealing with weak men when it comes to justice for sweet, innocent, little baby girls.
I accept the foam cup of coffee he offers and paste on my most pleasant, non-conflict smile. But instead of a verbal answer, I open the door to the interrogation room inside his precinct on the other side of the city from my office.
Passing the large mirror everyone knows is one-way, and pulling up a chair at a steel table, I sit down and look across at a man whose eyes will forever linger in the back of my psyche.
Laramie Fentone is almost fifty, but he doesn’t look a day under seventy. Large ears, loose skin, and eyes that droop so the bags beneath them stand out in stark contrast.
He sits with his elbows on the table, cuffs wrapped around his wrists, but he gets a foam cup too—though, he only gets to drink water, just in case he wants to throw it. His work uniform is eerily like prison overalls, but instead of orange with a number stamped over the left breast, he wears navy and gets to keep his name, which is sewn on.
Franklin pulls up a chair beside me, but it’s my eyes Fentone stares into. It’s my face he studies.
And it’s his complete lack of facial hair that I focus on.
No eyebrows. No eyelashes. Not even a stray nostril hair to pluck, or a strand poking from his overlarge ears.
“Laramie Fentone,” Detective Franklin speaks for the record, “you’ve been brought in for interrogation in relation to two recent homicides in Copeland City.”
“I didn’t hurt anyone.” He speaks calmly. Almost quietly. And his eyes don’t leave mine for even a second. “I have an alibi.”
“I haven’t even told you which homicide,” Franklin points out. “You have no clue what time frame I’m going to ask you about. You’ve got an alibi twenty-four seven?”
“Yep.” He slides his tongue past his lips and licks the bottom. In response, goosebumps sprint along my skin from the tip of my spine all the way down to my feet. “A man like me needs around-the-clock accountability, otherwise the cops think they can drag me in and pin crimes I didn’t commit to my jacket.”
His eyes slowly make their way down my face, so it feels like a physical touch. “You’re beautiful. Who are you?”
“Hey!” Franklin slams his fist against the table. “I ask the questions. You got it?”
Still, Fentone’s eyes continue to watch me. “What’s your name?” He lifts his chin and blows an air kiss.
I should be repulsed. I should probably be horrified, considering what I suspect he did to Bella and Chelsea. But Archer does the kiss thing too, when he’s feeling silly.
A bark of laughter rolls along my throat and bursts out until Fentone sits back. He wanted to scare me, but in response, I laugh in his face.
“You really think you’re suave, don’t you, Laramie?” My shoulders bounce, and the humor that makes my cheeks hurt only grows when his face burns with anger. “Do you think this is a speed date?” Then I look to Franklin. “Do we typically exchange phone numbers and sexual conquests in these rooms?”
“Well…” He clears his throat and looks to Fentone. “Not the phone numbers. But often, sexual conquests are discussed in here. Though, typically, they’re labeled sexual assault. You know Bella Daniels, Laramie.” His voice turns sharp and dangerous. “You’ve met her, haven’t you?”
“I meet all sorts of people,” he responds. “I’m a friendly guy.”
“You call it friendly,” I murmur. My laughter fades away until I’m left with nausea rolling in my stomach. “Little girls consider it a creepy old man who won’t leave them alone. Does it piss you off when no one will stop to chat with you?”
“Nothing pisses me off.” He looks at my chest, leering and lingering. “I know his name is Franklin, but you haven’t introduced yourself. Would you prefer I call you Beautiful?”
My lips peel back. “You can call me Doctor Mayet. I’m the person who spent all of last night with Bella Daniels and Chelsea Bailee.” I watch his eyes. His hands. His breathing. “I’m the one who confirmed both little girls, in the moments prior to death, had consumed, and held, candy that comes from your workplace.”
He lounges back in his chair, clasping his hands together, and flattens his lips. “Candy can be bought at every corner store, grocery store, and gas station on every block of the city.” He looks to Franklin. “Surely you have more than that to take to trial, Detective.”
“Ihave more.” Smiling, I bring his eyes back my way. “I have the chemical makeup of the exact candy you gave each of those girls. It just so happens you not only work in a factory that processes it, but your shift roster places you on those particular production lines the morning of each murder.”
“That’s nothing—”
“Strawberry Whirls,” I cut in. “That’s what you gave Chelsea. She made quite a mess of her fingers while eating it. She died later that night, and you had worked the Strawberry Whirl line earlier that day.”
“So?” he bites out. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
