Die For Me: A Novel of the Valentine Killer (For Me #1)(3)
The hallway stretched forever. For-freaking-ever. She wanted to walk faster, to run to Detective Black, but she forced herself to keep it slow.
Don’t draw any more attention than you have to.
The second turn led to a giant room that housed half a dozen desks. Some were occupied. Some empty. She counted as she walked forward. One. Two. Three. F—
“Look, I don’t care who the hell you are,” the big male with black hair snarled into his phone as he stood near desk number four. “I want to know who leaked you that information, and I want to know now.”
She tensed at the fury in his voice.
“You weren’t helping anyone. You were trying to up your ratings, and now I’ve got a city in a panic because you all but told them the Valentine Killer was hunting in New Orleans.” His fingers tightened around the phone. “When I find out who leaked the info to you, I’ll nail his ass to the wall.” Then he slammed down the phone.
He spun around and faced Katherine, and she jerked back.
Detective Black’s eyes—a deep, dark blue—widened when he saw her. “Who are you?” he asked. The light drawl of the South in his voice.
She swallowed and tried to loosen her death grip on her purse. “My name’s Katherine Cole, and I wanted to talk to you about Savannah Slater.”
He blinked. The detective really was a handsome man. His features were strong, almost rough, but still handsome. Square jaw. High cheekbones. A nose that looked like it had been broken a time or two. She noticed that a faint scar curled under his lower lip.
She tilted her head back to better study him. The detective towered over her. He had to be at least six foot two, maybe three, and had wide, strong shoulders.
“What do you know about Savannah Slater?” he demanded, and he didn’t exactly sound friendly.
I know too much. But she couldn’t tell him that. The last thing she wanted was to find herself shoved into one of the cells at the police station. Well, actually, that wasn’t the last thing.
“I have a few questions,” Katherine whispered.
More phones rang. Detective Black swore and grabbed her arm. “Come with me.” He hustled her toward a small room in the back. Not a cell, just some kind of interrogation room. She’d been in rooms like that one before. He pushed her inside and slammed the door shut behind him.
“You’re a reporter.” Detective Black glared at her, and his firm lips tightened even more. “Look, I’m not giving you a quote, I’m not giving you a scoop, I’m not giving you anything now.”
He was too close to her. Her back was against the wall, and he stood inches away. Katherine didn’t like getting this close to people. Especially men. That was one of the issues she’d been working on with her shrink. Before she ditched said shrink.
She exhaled and said, “I’m not a reporter.” Her voice was stronger now.
“Then why are you in my precinct?” he asked. His gaze raked her body, and she didn’t like that too-assessing stare.
“Because I need to know about Savannah.” Truth. I need to know so I can decide if I need to run. Just when her life had started to get settled. The nightmares hadn’t stopped, but she’d almost felt…normal.
She should have known better.
“You’re out of luck.” He didn’t sound a bit apologetic. “’Cause I’m not talking about my case.” A faint drawl rolled lightly beneath his words.
“Fine. Then I’ll talk.” Her own words were clipped and gave no hint of an accent. She’d worked hard to lose that Boston tone. Katherine licked her lips, and Black’s gaze darted to her mouth as she said, “On the news, the reporter said that Savannah’s wrists and ankles were bound. Did the killer tie a handcuff knot with thick hemp rope? Because Valentine always used a Mexican handcuff knot—”
“Fucking news,” the cop muttered. “Look, we have no reason to believe the Valentine Killer is linked to this crime, got it? So if you think you’re coming down here to spin some bullshit story and jerk me around—”
“I’m not jerking you around.” Dammit, she was trying to help. Because she hadn’t helped before. She’d done nothing, and women had died. Not again.
If there was any chance this was Valentine and not a copycat, she had to speak out. She’d never bought the idea that Valentine had killed himself. Sure, she thought some of the cops back in Boston wished that the killer had taken his own life, but she didn’t believe that theory. It was a too-easy, too-neat theory to cover up the fact that the cops had never come close to catching Valentine. And, to her, he was Valentine. Not Michael. Never Michael.
Michael was the man she’d agreed to marry.
Valentine was the monster who’d stolen everything from her.
Keeping them separate was one of the ways she’d managed to stay sane after her life had turned into a nightmare.
By the time the cops had arrived at her house three years earlier, Valentine had been long gone. He’d just vanished and no amount of tracking had been able to find him. Until now? Because if Valentine had come out of hiding, if this was really him, then she had to speak, and screw what her handling officer with the Program thought. When she’d called him after leaving the café, he’d told her to stay away from the precinct. To keep a low profile and ignore the death.