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But nope. It barely registered a reaction.
Gives me hope that when I get to the end of my story, he won’t want to have me arrested.
I’d love to have my wrists in cuffs in front of Klein, but not because I’m being hauled to jail. A cheeky grin takes over my face at the mere thought of it.
“If your expression is anything to go by, you found something helpful.”
Oh shit. Forgot what I was doing for a second.
Nodding, I respond, “Extremely helpful. In fact, explicitly so.” I toss him an innuendo-filled wink to throw it back at our text conversation from earlier today.
His eyes narrow at me, and his face draws tight. But I can’t tell whether it’s frustration or arousal.
“And?”
“Well, we have three suspects.”
“Wait. What? How?”
“Instagram, my dear Watson. Social media is both a gateway for criminals to prey on their victims and their surest path to demise.”
His handsome features soften just enough to reveal the tiniest grin. “Pictures?”
“Even better. Pictures and a few reels.”
He sets the water on the coffee table and leans forward. “Show me.”
To ensure he can fully see my screen, I scoot over and bring myself smack dab beside him. The heat of his body reaches toward mine, beckoning me.
“So this is our witness, Kimberly.” I point to the twenty-two-year-old blond whose entire life is on Instagram for anyone to see. “She’s the one who saw the victim— Lettie Holt— stagger into the Honda, leaving the Stumbling Sea Turtle dance club.”
“This pic was taken Friday night?”
“Correct.” I point to the date on the bottom of the screen. “Selfie after selfie. Her and her friends. Bathroom selfie. Bar selfie. Dance floor selfie. Doing shots selfie. Another bathroom selfie.”
“Why do people do that?” he asks, nose wrinkled. “No one enjoys seeing the inside of a bathroom. And look at them, all preening like show ponies, the three of them.” He makes a tsking sound, drawing a giggle from me.
“I don’t know why they do it. Stop distracting me. Bathroom selfies aren’t important.Barselfies are, in this case.” I stop advancing through the pictures, landing on thebigone. “Unfortunately, I didn’t find Lettie Holt or the perps on Kimberly’s Instagram—”
He cuts me off. “Well, then why are—”
“Psh, psss, shh,” I shush him overdramatically. “Kimberly’s account led me to her friends, Adelya and Melissa, who she tagged in several of the photos. And Melissa posted this selfie at the bar. It’s the money shot, if you will.”
Cal’s cheeks grow rosy. Innocent, sweet man. The mere reference to a cum shot has him blushing like a twelve-year-old.
“Is that…” He lets his unfinished question hang in the air while squinting to study the photo.
“Yep. That’s our girl.”
Lettie sits at the bar about five feet behind the selfie trio with two men close beside her. Too close.
But you can’t see their faces in this shot.
“You said there was video too? A reel?”
I scroll past a few more pictures on her feed and click on the reel. “So I downloaded this video from her page and imported it into my analysis program to enhance it. From there, I ran checks against other videos and pictures on social media and got a ton of good shit.”
“You did all this today?”
