Shiver

She straightened her back and took a deep breath to make sure the squeak was gone. “As a matter of fact, I do. Are you booking me?”

“Did I say I was?”

“Then I don’t agree to be fingerprinted.”

He blew out an exasperated breath. “Why not? You got something to hide?”

She threw up her hands. “I believe you’re trying to stomp all over my civil liberties, Detective MacIntyre, and I don’t like it.”

“Really? I thought you were more than willing to help with this case in any way you could.”

“I am.”

“Except for getting fingerprinted,” he said calmly, his gaze cool and slightly disbelieving.

“Exactly.” She clenched her teeth, refusing to budge an inch. “So, I really don’t see any point in my staying here.” She took a step back. “I’m leaving.”

“Wait.” He latched on to her arm.

She looked down at his hand, then back up into his dark brown eyes. Something lurched inside her—something…uncomfortable. “What?”

He released her and rubbed his face. “I’ll drive you.”

“I’d rather not.”

“It’s too hot to walk,” he cajoled.

She gave him an icy stare of her own.

“All right,” he relented. “If you don’t want to be fingerprinted, I can respect that. But can we hang out long enough to get the statement written up? Unless, that is, you don’t want to cooperate with the police after all?”

For a second she thought about it, then decided it would be better to cooperate than to have the whole department thinking she had something to hide. “Very well.”

“Good, ’cause the process of typing up my notes helps me put my thoughts together and it never fails that I always seem to remember something else to ask. It would help me out a lot if you were here.” He smiled at her. That stupid smile he used when he thought he was being charming. But he wasn’t. It didn’t work on her, not one little bit. She pursed her lips, and tried to rekindle her fading anger.

She gave her statement, then sat quietly as he typed away, his fingers moving awkwardly over the keys and slower than molasses in January. She squeezed her hands together to stop from insisting on typing her statement herself, then looked out the window, examined the clutter on his desk, then looked out the window again, anything to keep from jumping out of her skin with impatience.

Her gaze fell across a picture on his desk—the detective standing between and resting his arms on the shoulders of another man and a woman. Devra’s eyes widened as she took in the striking resemblance she shared with this woman—so much more so than with the others. So much more than she remembered from her dream. The sound of typing stopped. She looked up to find the detective staring at her, his eyes hard and unreadable.

“Have you seen that woman before?” he asked.

What could she say? That she’d seen her in a dream with her throat being slashed? They’d lock her up in the nearest loony bin. “She looks like me,” Devra stated.

Suspicion teemed in his eyes. And something else…something cold—rage. Fear zipped down her spine.

“And…” he prompted.

“She does look a little familiar,” she hedged. “Perhaps I’ve met her at the hospital. Does she have children?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She paused, swallowing. “Was she the one who had my locket?”

“In a matter of speaking.”

“The woman who was killed?” Nightmarish images flashed behind her eyes—bright beads twisting, pulling taut against white skin, blue eyes bulging with fear. He was getting more and more suspicious by the moment. She could see it in his face, could read it in his eyes. But she didn’t know what she could do about it.

Something twitched in his jaw. “Yes, she was.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, unable to meet his gaze.

“So am I.”

“Well,” she stammered. “Are you almost done?”

“Almost.”

Devra turned back to the picture, unable to face the hardness in his face, and noticed the strong resemblance between him and the other man in the picture. “Brother?”

“Yeah. Okay, done.” He grabbed the paper out of the printer and thrust it at her.

She scanned it, then signed her name on the bottom.

“Riley, what are you doing?” a man boomed as he walked through the door.

“Just getting a statement, Captain.” The detective stood and faced the man, then gestured toward her. “Captain Lewis, this is Devra Morgan. It was her locket we found on Michelle.”

Devra stood uncertainly, trying to hide her nervousness.

The captain took only a second to size her up, then turned back to the detective. “Have Pat finish up her statement. You need some time off. Go home and be with your family.”

Devra sat back down and pretended to be reading her statement. He was being taken off the case. She smothered a smile.

“Captain—”

“I don’t want any arguments about it,” his captain continued. “You’re too close to this case to be objective. You could do more harm than good.”

“I’ve been living the night stalker case for thirteen months. I know it inside and out,” he insisted.

“At this point, it doesn’t matter. This wasn’t the night stalker.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This one is different, hair and fibers don’t match up.”

“That’s why Michelle was out there. She was trying to flush this guy out. Are you telling me someone else got to her?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Michelle was a good cop. Her death is a terrible loss for all of us. Do yourself a favor, Riley, go home and take care of your family. Take care of yourself.”