Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
With a groan of frustration, I sit back in my chair and scrub my hands down my face. There’s nothing worse than having an open case, especially when loved ones are looking to you for answers you can’t give.
“Cal, you good, man?”
I look at Herb, sitting a desk away. A man who took me under his wing when I was a rookie and taught me everything he knew about being a detective.
“Yeah, I just need coffee and some air.” I stand, pick up my badge, and clip it to my belt before holstering my gun on my hip.
“Maybe you should go home to shower,” he suggests, informing me without actually saying the words that I look like shit.
Last evening, two seconds after I’d pulled up to Anna’s place, Herb called to tell me that I was needed. So instead of spending the night with Anna, like I hoped I’d be doing, I spent the night at a crime scene and then the morning talking to Mike’s friends and neighbors, looking for leads.
“I might stop by my house to shower, but I’ll be back. The medical examiner should be calling this afternoon, and I want to be around to meet with him.”
“Right,” he mutters. “I’ll see you back here in a few hours then. And you should know my kids are refusing to let me bring your dog back to you, so you’re gonna have to live without him for another few days.”
“Understood.” I smile as I pick up my cell and shove it in my pocket. “You know you could just get them a dog of their own.”
“No, thanks. I’ll just borrow yours. That way I can give him back,” he says.
I laugh. “I’ll be back.”
“See ya.” He gives me a salute, and I lift my chin.
After I get to my truck, I head across town to the Sweet Spot, figuring I’ll kill two birds with one stone by getting some coffee and my fix of Anna. I park down the block from the bakery, and noticing a crowd gathered at the door, I bypass everyone, ignoring the comments and grumbles, and head inside. The place is packed: every table is taken up with customers, and there’s a line of people waiting for their turn. I spot Chrissie at the register and can tell by her expression that she’s annoyed by whatever the woman in front of her is saying.
“Please tell me that you’re here to help.”
I look to my right and find Gaston clearing off a table. “What the hell is going on?”
“Your woman is popular, and everyone and their mother is here trying to get a glimpse of the millionaire girl who works at the local bakery.”
“Jesus.” I look around, noting then that most of the customers have the same look on their faces people get when they’re passing by the scene of an accident, like they’re trying to get a peek at the carnage that’s been left behind.
“They want her to sign their papers, take a photo, or both.” He shakes his head. “I don’t get it, but they all seem to think she’s famous. Especially after her ex talked to the media and said he loves her, has been giving her time to find herself, and that he’s waiting for her to come home so they can finish planning their wedding and start their life together.”
“She’s not marrying him,” I say with more force than necessary.
“I know that, big guy, but that’s what he’s saying, and the media is eating it up.”
Right, the fucking dick. The fact that he didn’t come here the moment she took off and drag her ass back home proves how big of an idiot he is.
“Hey, Calvin.” Chrissie gives me a tired smile as I follow Gaston around the back of the counter.
“You doin’ okay, babe?” Gaston asks her, stopping to kiss the side of her head.
“I’m fine.” She pats his cheek, then looks at me. “Anna’s in the back.”
“Is she coming out here?” the woman at the front of the line asks, sounding anxious, and I turn to face her. “I’d like her to sign my paper.” She sets it faceup on the counter, and I see a photo of Anna wearing a formfitting dress under the arm of a good-looking man with a smug smile who’s wearing a tux. The headline reads COLD FEET OR COLD HEARTED?
“Like I told you before, ma’am, she’s not coming out.”
“Why not?” She plants her hands on her wide hips. “I drove over an hour just to see her.”
“And you can drive an hour back home,” I tell her, placing my hand on my waist near my badge, and her eyes widen when they drop to it. “Enjoy your cookies and your day.”
Her nose scrunches, and she grumbles something under her breath, then turns to walk away.