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The legs of my metal chair scrape loudly across the floor as I push back. Louis jerks his head up as if he forgot I was even sitting there. I flip open the file in front of me, pull out a picture clipped to a piece of paper, and spin it around to face him. “This her?”
“What?” he asks, his face colored in confusion.
“Is. This. Her?” I clip, barely hanging onto my remaining restraint. I need to finish this so I can get the fuck out of here.
His gaze drops to the computer-generated image of a twenty-eight-year-old Aislin, modified from the original sketch I had done of her all those years ago. He sucks in his lower lip, squints his eyes, and starts shaking his head. “No. No, no way. That’s not her.”
“Look closer,” I bite out.
“No! Her hair was red, like a deep, dark color that was obviously fake, and she had a Cindy Crawford mole above her lip.”
Fuck! The hair didn’t have me convinced, but she couldn’t be Aislin with such a telltale mark. Not to mention the guy said he strangled her to death, not beat the ever-loving life straight out of her flesh.
I shift around the open file, dig out a fresh piece of paper, and push it along with a pen in front of him. “If you could please write that all down, we’ll be done here. I’ll be right back.”
I give him a second to pick up the pen and begin to write before I leave. Tavers and Captain are waiting for me on the other side.
“Nice work, James,” Captain praises once the door’s closed.
I’m so ready to explode I can’t even speak. I was so damn sure I’d found the guy or, more accurately, that he’d fallen right into my fucking lap. Finding out I’m wrong feels like losing her all over again.
“Now get out of here.”
“What?” I whip my head in Captain’s direction. “You’re sending me home after that? After I got that confession without any bloodshed?”
Tavers looks as confused as I feel but doesn’t speak. He knows he doesn’t have a dog in this fight. Not like I do.
“Yep,” he replies shortly. “He’s not your guy, so now you’re off this case. Mandatory. Five days. I don’t want to see you; I don’t want to hear from you.”
I start to defend myself, but he holds up a hand.
“Don’t force me to make it indefinite. Just get out of here, take some R&R, and clear your head. We’ve got it from here.” He disappears into the interrogation room.
“Fuck this shit,” I growl and turn my back.
“Niko...” Tavers starts.
“Say hi to your wife.”
“Where’re you going?” he calls after me.
“Stay out of it,” I bite out and push my way through the double doors that lead outside. I don’t have my truck and don’t bother to call a cab. My feet are capable of taking me where I want—no, need—to go, which is straight back to Bar 9 to get my truck. After that, I’m swinging by the liquor store and spending the first day of my mandatory vacation at home.
