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Calvin nods, holding my gaze. “I explained that you’re in the process of moving in so we’re living between two places at the moment.” He smiles like we’re a normal couple, then turns back to the officers.
“Yeah. Sorry to bother you, Miss,” says the tall, skinny one, ducking his head a bit. “Do you know Lance Matthews?”
“Yes.” My heart sinks into a vat of acid in my twisting stomach. “Is he all right?”
The officer nods. “He is. He’s in the hospital right now, but he said the two of you were accosted coming out of a restaurant last night and that the assailant took you with him.”
I swallow, unsure how to answer whatever questions they have for me. “Yes, that’s true. A man mugged us. He took the cash out of Lance’s wallet and then he demanded my purse.”
The officer nods, flipping open a little spiral notebook he’s carrying with him. “And did you give it to him?”
“What?”
He raises an expectant eyebrow. “The purse.”
“Oh. Um…” I pause to think. “No. No, he… He got distracted I think.”
“By what?”
“My dress.”
The officer cocks an eyebrow. “Was there something odd about it?”
I shake my head, tugging the robe closer to make sure more skin is covered. I’m keenly aware of my bare legs and I wish I could’ve put on some pants before doing this. “I think he made a comment about my breasts.”
“Oh,” the officer says, growing a bit flushed.
The other more aggressive-looking officer eyes me. “Youthinkhe made a comment about your breasts? You’re not sure?”
“I know he did, I just can’t remember now if it was in front of Lance or when he dragged me away.”
The nicer cop nods and jots that down in his notebook, but the hard-eyed one stares me down like he expects me to be a problem. “It would help us immensely if you would do your best to remember the details, ma’am.”
“Like I said, he made a comment. I’m not sure why that’s even relevant, honestly.”
“It is,” says the hardass, still holding my gaze. “We need every detail you can recall, even ones you don’t think are important.”
I dislike him immediately and intensely. Still trying to be conciliatory, I say, “All right. Well, now you know.”
“What did his voice sound like?”
My eyebrows rise. “Like a man? I don’t know how to describe a voice.”
“Deep? Low? High-pitched? Did he have an accent? Did he sound young or old?”
“I have no idea,” I answer.
Looking decidedly unimpressed, he says, “All right. What did he look like? We’ll need to note anything you can remember now, and if you could come down to the station later today, we can get more detail and have a sketch drawn to start circulating.”
I shake my head. “I can’t help with a sketch. I never saw his face. His hair. I have no idea what he looked like. He wore baggy jeans and a sweater—a hoodie. Underneath he wore a black ski mask, so even when the hood slipped down, I couldn’t see his face. I never even saw his eyes.”
“You can’t give us anything?” he asks skeptically.
I shrug helplessly. “He was taller than me, I think. But shorter than Lance.”
The nice one jots that down.
The jerky one asks, “Did you notice any distinguishing marks? Scars, tattoos?”
