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“So when will I get them back?” I ask.
Rory half-laughs in disbelief. “Whenever they’re no longer necessary for the investigation.”
We stare at each other, his hand still on my wrist. Clearly, he’s not backing down.
I release the bone in a huff. “The Bicentennial is in two weeks. I need the bones.”
“Not gonna happen,” he says.
I shoot upward, ripping off my gloves. “This is ridiculous.”
“Chaplin—”
“They’re not even part of the body. Whoever this is, my bones aren’t even part of?—”
Rory follows suit, standing to his full height. Why does he have to be so tall? I’m not easily intimidated, but it’s hard not to be a little on edge when a man casts a shadow over me, a rarity given my near six-foot status. “That’s not how the law works.”
“So now it’s convenient for you to follow the law, when earlier you weren’t even willing to investigate arobbery?”
He looks askance. “That’s not how I’d put it.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. You’re the one doing the paperwork. Who cares what I say?” I shoot back.
“Look, Chaplin?—”
“Doctor,” I hiss. “It’s Doctor Chaplin,Rory.”
And that bowls him almost straight over. I relish the way he reacts to his name from my mouth, like an electrocution or a cold shower.
Speaking of cold shower, I need to get inside. This mist is starting to soak through to the skin. “Fine,” I growl. “I’m going to go.”
I start to head back through the yews, but Rory grabs my arm.Would he stop doing that?“If you wait a few minutes, I can get a squad car to drive you back.”
Yanking my arm away, I huff, “Don’t bother. I’ll be fine.”
He almost looks hurt. Sad puppy eyes.
Oh, I know what he’s doing. Using the charm and the touch and the puppy eyes. Doesn’t work on me. No way.
“You better get my bones out of the rain as soon as possible,” I say.
“We’ll get a tent up as soon as possible,” Rory replies.
I don’t want to be polite. I so desperately want to tear his head off. However, I can respect that he’s trying to follow protocol. Protocol matters to me too. “Thank you.”
Rory doesn’t speak right away. I don’t know why I don’t leave in his silence. Instead, I allow him to look at me. Take me in. Size me up. “No, thank you,Constance.”
I harden my jaw and start to alphabetize all the names I’d like to call him that are not Rory or Sheriff McEvoy. Instead, I storm off without another word, trying to formulate a plan for what I’ll do without my bones.
4
Rory
Donna Frederickson hands me a mug of coffee. “Careful, it’s hot.”
“Thank you,” I say and raise the mug toward her. “I need this.”
She smiles sweetly. “My pleasure, Sheriff.”
