He takes a deep breath and touches my arm. “I sure hope you know what you’re doin’.”
For once, I do.
The board in front of me is covered in Post-it notes. I have a color for Dr. Gentry, one for Ryan, one for Penny, and one for miscellaneous suspects. Simple.
Each one is connected by a relationship timeline, which has been scribbled onto the whiteboard with different-colored dry-erase markers. To anyone else, it looks like a muddle of lines and crisscrosses, but to me, it makes total sense.
On the board next to me, I have a timeline of every victims’ last few hours equaled out with the whereabouts of my suspects.
For the first time since this started, I feel like I’m looking at some definitive evidence.
Well, I say evidence.
It’s hard to have that when you’re basing theories upon Post-its and dry-erase markers.
Still—better than nothing.
I lean back in my chair and tap my foot against the floor. My heels sink into the deep carpet, and I chew the end of my pen. If only figuring this out were as simple as the others.
And why did someone smudge my paint on my wall?
Inconsiderate little rookie-cop assholes.
“Yellow?” Bek pokes her head in my door. “Can you sign off this case? Mrs. Gonzalez wants her daughter-in-law followed. Thinks she’s sleeping with her boss.”
I wave her in, my eyes on the board still, and grab my pen to sign the bottom of the sheet.
“Thank you.” She walks out as quickly as she came in, closing the door behind her.
Relationships are funny things, aren’t they? Always twisting and turning… Honest yet so deceitful… Real yet so fake at the same time.
How do you know what’s real? How can you separate the illusion from the clear picture? How is it possible to look at someone and know they’re being entirely truthful? How can you look at someone and know they are when you’re not being truthful?
“Miss Noelle,” Dean says, knocking and pushing my door open. “Ms. Oliver wants her boyfriend Lucas investigated.”
I wave him toward me the way I just did with Bek and sign the bottom of the sheet.
Today is busy.
I pull the cupcake from my drawer once he shuts the door and dip my finger into the frosting. Mmm, chocolate. With sprinkles. And extra chocolate.
God bless whoever put this one there.
Sneaky people…
I drop it as quickly as I picked it up.
Eating a cupcake I didn’t know existed? Am I insane? Paranoid? Yes. Insane? Yes. Still yes.
Good grief.
Thank God I only swallowed one mouthful of frosting.
I swallow it down with a wash of water from my bottle and revisit my boards. I know I’m missing something, however small it is. However big or small or shiny or dull. There’s this tiny little dot in the image that is my investigation that just won’t be filled in.
“Yo, boss.”
I wave Marshall in, not looking at him. Squares. Bright squares. Relationships. Connected oddly. Yet connected. Somehow. Secondarily. Enough? Maybe.
“Here’s the latest on Mallory and the store.”
“Thanks.” I put my hand on the file when he drops it on the desk and slide it toward me. “You good?”
“Yeah. Are…you? Do you need anything?”
I shake my head. “Not right now.”
“Okay.”
I breathe in slowly but deeply when he moves away and lean even farther back in my chair. He pauses, something I see in the corner of my eye, but I don’t pay attention until he moves again and he opens my office door.
I conference-call everyone. “Y’all can leave now,” I say into my speaker. “Thanks for stayin’ earlier.”
“You sure?” Dean asks. “Detective Nash said—”
“I know what he said. My brother is on speed dial. Don’t worry.”
“If you’re sure, Miss Noelle.”
“Positive. I’ll call now and they can send someone over if they feel I need it,” I lie smoothly. “Y’all take a few hours for yourselves.”
“Okay,” Bek says slowly. “You sure you’re good?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna finish printing out the Delaney and O’Connor cases then head off. I won’t be ten minutes after you.”
“I’d feel comfortable stayin’, ma’am,” Dean says.
“And I have my gun. I’m fine. I promise. Detective Nash is a giant worry-worm. Don’t y’all worry now.”
“You sure?” he asks, his voice more hesitant than Mike’s.
“I’m sure as sure can be, doll. You go on.” I hang up before they pester me even more. I reach down, hidden by the camera angle, and put my black-and-pink 9mm into the ankle holster I slipped on not long ago. Then I sit back up, brandishing a pen. “Damn things get everywhere,” I murmur, putting it into my holder.
Bek opens my door and meets my eyes. Her gaze is screaming worry, and I feel bad for a moment. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” I smile, holding up my Tiffany-blue Glock. “Just gotta pick it up and I’m shootin’ someone. I’m good.”
She looks from the gun to me. “Yeah, you’re good. Call me later.”
I smile and agree. Everyone pokes their heads into my office as they leave, and I tell Dean to leave the office door open just a little. As the last man, he does, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I click my security camera off and dial Drake’s number.
My heart is in my throat as I do, but the danger I face right here, right now, is worse than what I could face from him.
“Detective Nash.”
“It’s Marshall,” I whisper.
“Noelle.”
“Yes. It’s Marshall,” I repeat, still whispering. “The killer.”
“I’m comin’ down.”
“No!” I protest, keeping my eye on the security feed on my laptop. “He won’t come in.”
“You’re tellin’ me you’re bringin’ a fuckin’ killer into your office, in front of you, and it’s okay?”
“No,” I reply, still watching. “But I can get your confession. Just trust me, okay? Please. Y’all can hack my security feed. I’ll send you the login thingymabobs I’ve never found. Just…trust me.”
“I don’t.”
“Then learn to.”
A door closes somewhere in the building, and I freeze, fear flooding my body.
“He’s here,” I say basically into the speaker, a tremor running through me.
Jesus, I’m scared.
“Don’t hang up!” Drake yells down the line, slamming and banging and yelling happening at his end. “Leave this motherfuckin’ line on! You got your gun?”
“Three.” Overkill? Eh, maybe.
“Do not hang up,” he orders.
“’Kay,” I say into the air, setting the phone face down into my open desk drawer.
My door handle squeaks. It’s somehow closed since everyone left, but the two-second delay allows me to turn my camera back on, pull my gun from the drawer and stand.
“Put it down, Noelle.” Marshall’s voice is cold, and his void eyes show nothing of the college graduate I hired a few months ago. They show nothing of the guy I asked to answer a million and one questions and teased about playing video games.
“You don’t want to do this, Marsh,” I warn softly. I feel sick—my gut feeling just hours ago was right.
His lips curl evilly. He looks different. Cold, calculating. Like a stranger. “I have no choice. By the time your boyfriend gets here, you’ll be dead, and he’ll wish he fucked you when he was makin’ out with you on your desk.”
“Well, for one, I severely dislike Detective Nash, so he sure as hell ain’t my boyfriend,” I respond, “And I won’t ask how the hell you know about the desk thing.”
“I couldn’t let you get too close.” He flicks the safety on his gun, the barrel pointed at my face. One shot on target and I’m Sunday lunch for maggots at the Holly Woods Graveyard. “I changed all the records before you asked for them. You’re not as smart as you think you are.”
“Clever,” I soothe him. “And the files that went missing? That was you, too?”