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“Yeah. I tagged the camera myself. It should have been part of discovery.”
“Do you remember what the tag was? It’ll make it faster for them to look up.”
“No. I’ve been to too many scenes since then. I can’t remember all that.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll just set aside some time to check for it.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks, Ryan. Have a good night.”
They hang up, and we both stare at her phone for a minute. She sits back on the couch and wiggles her mouth from side to side, something I’ve seen her do when she’s at ease and thinking. She’d never do it in a professional setting. I think it’s sweet that I get to see it. She twists to look at me as she speaks.
“The blast wasn’t as big as the prosecution said. The fire chief’s report made it sound like it was. There’s a camera that’s been withheld. I need access to the evidence locker because I have some serious concerns.”
Serious concerns is putting it mildly.
“We can’t do anything tonight, but you can go tomorrow.”
I wish I could go too, but that’s out of the question. I’ll have to wait for her to tell me.
“I know, but I’m pissed now. I’m pissed on your behalf that you’re being sandbagged, and I’m pissed that Tyler has something to do with this. I don’t expect him to care enough about me to personally take an interest in being ethical. I’m pissed that he’s being a little bitch to whoever is railroading him.”
“Slow down. Tyler might be totally innocent. He may have no idea evidence exists that he hasn’t seen. Depending on the evidence’s chain of custody, it may have disappeared well before they even assigned Tyler to the case.”
“True.”
“Let’s go to bed,piccolina. There’s nothing more to do tonight.”
She gazes up at me when I stand. I offer her my hand, and she doesn’t hesitate. When she’s on her feet, I tug her against me. My right hand snakes around her waist and grasps her ass. I squeeze as hard as I dare until I know her limits.
“That crop needs breaking in.”
“Yes, Daddy, it does. So do those cuffs.”
I wrap her ponytail around my left hand and pull until she’s looking at the ceiling.
“What’s your safe word, Sinead?”
“Mmm.”
I like that she has to think about it.
“How about cabbage? I think it smells revolting while it’s cooking.”
I grin.
“So, you won’t be making it on St. Patrick’s Day?”
“Who says I’ll be making anything? You’re the one with the gourmet kitchen.”
We both pause, realizing the implications that we’ll still be together next spring. I pull her tighter against me until there is no space.
“My kitchen is your kitchen.”
Does she understand what I’m suggesting?
“Daddy, I’m not a very good cook, but I think I could learn anything in— our?”
