No Perfect Hero(89)

The best sex of my life. The best rhythm my heart ever had.

I can’t pretend I’m not deeply attracted to him for more than just a fling.

I also can’t pretend I’m not disappointed to wake up alone when the sound of heavy rapping on the door drags me from sleep.

I blink against the bright light of morning, squinting and rubbing at my eyes sleepily.

Warren’s nowhere in sight in the bedroom. Yawning, I drag myself to my feet, hoisting up my jeans and stealing one of his t-shirts to wrap over myself before shuffling to the living room.

“I’m coming!” I mutter blearily, pushing my mussed hair back from my face. “I—”

“I’ve got it,” Warren says tightly, already on a beeline from the kitchen to the door.

I stop in the middle of the living room, blinking at him.

I’m not really awake. Not really processing. The only things clicking are that Warren is clean and fully dressed as if he’s been up for hours, vibrating with a restless energy.

And the person on the other side of the glass door is wearing muted tan. A sheriff’s uniform.

Wait, what?

But the sense of dread and confusion doesn’t congeal into something real enough to truly wake me up until Warren opens the door with a terse nod. “Morning, Sheriff Langley. What can I do for you?”

“You can tell me what you know about the murder of Dennis Bress,” the short, stocky man on the other side of the door says. “And where you were last night.”

All the sound, all the air gets sucked out of the room.

My stomach winds itself into a tight, sick coil.

I stare at Warren’s tight, silently tense posture, at the man looking at him with flat, expectant eyes that say he’s entirely serious. I want to scream, to say stop this, you’ve got the wrong man!

But I can tell where this is going already, helplessly rooted to the spot.

Warren remains calm, even if it’s a grim, focused calm, like a soldier heading into a fight he knows he can’t win.

“Well,” he says slowly, “considering this is the first I’m hearing Bress is dead...that should tell you what I know. I was here last night. The entire night. What happened?”

“That’s an interesting question.” The sheriff hooks his thumbs in his belt loops, and I try not to stare at the gun on his hip, my lips dry. “Thing is, either you already know, or if you don’t, I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of the case.”

“Then why are you on my doorstep?” Warren asks flatly.

“Son, it’s no secret that you almost went up on Bress at Brody’s the other night. Way I heard it, you were ready to kill him then and there. And you left mad.” The man sounds almost too casual, but those words are drilling, punching holes in my heart.

It's incredible they don’t seem to have any effect on Warren. He's a wall of ice, never flinching.

“You're telling me I'm a suspect?”

“Maybe. Maybe you wait a bit, watch for your moment...and then you give Bress what you think he’s got coming. Heard you’ve been stalking around him a bit. Working out some old grudge?”

“Not sure where you’ve been hearing things from, but you might want to check your facts, Sheriff.” Warren heaves a deep sigh. “But let’s do this the proper way. You want to cuff me, or you trust me to come along peacefully?”

As I realize what’s happening, I jolt forward, my heart tripping and my breaths sharp. “You can’t,” I blurt out. “You can’t arrest him! He didn’t do anything—”

“Haley.” Warren cuts me off quietly, but not angrily, turning a long look on me, blue eyes steady. “Go fetch Tara. Take her to Spokane. Send her home. Stay away from Heart’s Edge for a while. I’ll clear this up, darlin'. I promise.” He shakes his head. “I’ve just got to do it right. Let the police follow proper procedure. Focus on you and Tara. It’ll be okay.”

But it doesn’t feel okay. It doesn’t feel okay at all.

And I feel like nothing will ever be okay again as I stand there in helpless silence, watching the sheriff lead Warren away.





*



Ms. Wilma is already waiting for me when I dress myself properly and trudge numbly up to the house to retrieve my niece. I find Tara ensconced in the atrium, staring with fascination at a dragonfly on a cattail stalk, forgetting even the jewel-colored green pencil hanging in her lax fingers.

Deep breath.

I settle on the bench next to Ms. Wilma, heaving a heavy sigh.

“My, you seem like you’re carrying the weight of the world this morning, dear,” she says. “I don’t suppose it has something to do with why the police were parked in my drive this morning?”

God. I don’t know how to say it the right way.

If there even is a right way to say something like this.

Darting an uncertain glance at Tara, I lower my voice. “Someone said, well...Mr. Bress is dead,” I manage. As Ms. Wilma gasps, clutching her hands together, eyes widening and the color draining from her face, I continue reluctantly, “They think he was murdered. And they’re questioning Warren.”

“Pardon?” she asks faintly, before her lips set tightly. “Lord. I can't believe Dennis has been harmed, and that they think my Warren would—”