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Damn.
I don’t know this girl.
She’s as much of a stranger as that dead girl on the floor.
Still, something about the way she holds herself and bows her head like she’s grieving the loss of a life she never even knew trips something primal.
It makes me want to wrap her up in a safe cocoon and protect her, even if I can’t rule her out as a suspect just yet.
Sure, she might be putting on a brave front or one hell of an act, but I won’t blame her for being rattled.
She’s got a car, a dusty old Kia, parked out on the curb. I can make out moving boxes and laundry baskets piled with her stuff inside.
Fuck, this sucks.
The girl threw her whole life into the back of a ratty SUV. Showed up in a new town where she’s got no kin, no friends. Took on a job with folks she’s never met, sight unseen.
Then she walked right into this fucking mess.
Lots of people would be breaking down right now.
Somehow, Miss Delilah’s spine is still stiff, her expression composed. She’s trying her damnedest to keep it together.
I follow her down the steps.
“You’re not under arrest. Until the county coroner gives us a cause of death, we’ve got no firm reason to suspect foul play,” I say. “I will have to ask you to make other accommodations for a few nights, though. Even if she died of natural causes, we need to preserve the scene and gather evidence before moving the body, and we can’t do that if you’re moving in.”
She whirls on me in a lash of black, her hair like smoke, billowing around her.
She glares at me, all burning blue eyes.
“And just where am I supposed to stay?” she snaps.
“I’ve got a sofa.” It’s out before I can stop it, a dumb joke rising in answer to her sparking glare. “Little bit of hometown hospitality. Welcome to Redhaven. Pillows cost extra, Miss New York.”
Me and my big mouth.
She’s not amused in the slightest.
A scowl settles over her face and her fuck-you gaze just hardens.
“I bet you think you’re real funny, cracking shitty jokes at a murder scene,” she spits.
When she says it like that, it ain’t my smartest move. She doesn’t see I’m trying to lighten the mood, mostly for her sake.
“Never thought about doing stand-up, but I keep myself entertained,” I throw back.
Delilah’s eyes narrow, right on the verge of shooting flames now.
One slender tanned middle finger pops up in a proper New York salute.
I can’t help grinning. “That how you say hello where you’re from, New York?”
“It’s how we say a lot of things, you prick.”
My eyebrows dart up.
“I’ll take it as a declaration of your undying love,” I grumble. Then I skirt around her and pull the driver’s side door of the patrol car open so I can snag the notebook tucked into the sun visor. “Now, if I could get that name and contact information, I’ll follow up and make sure your ex didn’t trail you out here and have anything to do with this.”
Delilah goes dead silent for a moment.
That middle finger disappears and her hand goes back to gripping her elbow in a death hold.
“Please don’t—just don’t tell him where I am,” she whispers. “Go ahead, make sure he’s still in New York and all that, but don’t tell him I’m in Redhaven.”
“I won’t,” I promise. “You’re safe here, Miss Clarendon. I wouldn’t dare joke about that.”
Her gaze flicks to me, then to the open door of the blue cottage house.
“Am I?” she asks sharply.
Knife, meet guts.
I wish I could make her believe me, but she’s got good reason to feel skeptical.
Sure, I can promise her I won’t let anything bad happen till I’m blue in the face, but that won’t make her believe it.
I’ll just have to do my job, and make sure she doesn’t have any reason to regret coming to our little town.
She’s subdued as she gives me a name, a number, a last known address.
Roger Strunk, age twenty-six, an HVAC repairman from Queens.
That’s one lead.
The chief steps outside then and tells Delilah she’s welcome to stay at The Rookery’s main property, free of charge. I know he means it when he says Janelle would be happy to have her.
Delilah warily accepts, but thank fuck she does.
That means I know where to find her.
I hate that it all feels a little too easy. Too neat. Too simple.
Maybe her paranoia is starting to infect me now.
Then again, I’ve got my own good reasons for finding this whole ugly business a little fishy.
The simplest explanation isn’t always the right one.
Usually, when things look too simple in Redhaven, it means one thing.
Trouble.
I can’t get that girl off my mind.
Both of them, really, but mostly, Miss New York.
I can’t bring that poor dead girl back to life. I’ll certainly do my best by her—make sure we get her IDed and start bringing her some justice. But justice won’t bring her back.
