Lake Silence (The Others #6)(16)

“I think so,” Vicki said. “Maybe.”

Grimshaw nodded. “All right, then. We can drive back to The Jumble and—”

“She still has to answer some questions about the man who was killed on her property,” Swinn snapped.

“A moment ago, you were certain it wasn’t her property.”

“Don’t screw with me, Grimshaw. I’ve read your file, Officer.”

Yep. He did not work or play well with others. Especially assholes like Swinn. Which was one of the reasons he was still just an officer while other men were promoted over him. But Swinn’s reaction made him think the dead man was just the tip of the iceberg and Julian Farrow was right—there was something wrong in Sproing.

“Ms. DeVine?” Grimshaw waited until he had her attention. “Let’s get your safe-deposit box locked up again, and then we’ll go over to the station.”

“What’s the point of locking up an empty box?” she asked.

No point at all, he thought. But he wondered how many of Sproing’s citizens were going to empty out their boxes once word got out that their valuables weren’t any safer in the bank than they would be under the bed.





CHAPTER 9





Vicki


Sunsday, Juin 13

We hadn’t gone more than a couple of steps past the bank when a black luxury sedan with tinted windows glided into a parking space in front of the police station. It was so shiny, like road dust didn’t dare touch its surface. Maybe they used a special wax that repelled dirt. If I asked the driver, would he tell me? My little green car was more a mottled brown these days, what with driving up the gravel access road to The Jumble’s main house.

Then a man got out of the back seat.

He was . . . yummy. I mean, he was a double-scoop sundae with hot fudge and caramel sauce and a mountain of real whipped cream yummy. His hair was darker than Ineke’s double-fudge brownies, and he had the most luscious melted-chocolate eyes.

He smiled at me, and I tried to move toward him, but Officer Grimshaw gripped my arm and wouldn’t move at all. Didn’t he know that gorgeous men never smiled that way at dumpy women with unruly hair? Stupid man.

“I’m Ms. DeVine’s attorney,” Yummy said. “I would like to speak to my client in private. We can use my office.” He pointed toward the second floor of the police station. Then he handed Grimshaw a business card.

He was who? I was what?

“Crap.” It was one of Grimshaw’s breathed rather than spoken words.

“You’re not a public defender,” Swinn said, pushing forward. “And she can’t afford anything more.”

Too true, especially since someone stole the emergency fund I’d kept in the safe-deposit box.

“I will speak with my client in private,” Yummy Attorney said. His eyes didn’t look like melted chocolate anymore.

“Then you can talk to her in the station. We have a little room in the back just for that,” Swinn said.

Sure, go ahead and smirk.

“Mr. Sanguinati and Ms. DeVine can talk in the front room, if that’s acceptable,” Grimshaw said.

Sanguin . . . Oh. It figured he wouldn’t be a regular guy.

Then again . . .

Grimshaw released my arm and I sort of teetered into the police station, followed by the yummy vampire attorney.

I took one of the visitors’ seats. He brought the other visitors’ chair over and sat facing me, our knees almost touching. Then he leaned forward and took my hands.

“You’re trembling, Ms. DeVine.” He rubbed a thumb over my knuckles. Was that supposed to calm me down, especially when he was looking at me as if I might be a plain vanilla cone but that was just what he was in the mood for? “Did those men hurt you in any way?”

“What men?”

“Are you unwell?”

Something was upsetting him, and when he glanced toward the door of the police station, I began to put it together. I wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box at that moment—stress does that to me—but like I said, I read a lot of thrillers, so I finally put the questions together. On the TV shows, the good guys refer to it as nonphysical interference or psychological intimidation.

That’s what he wanted to know. Was his client shaking because of something that had been done? Trouble was, I’d developed a technique throughout my childhood and my marriage to Yorick where I would go to a safe and secret place in my mind, a closet that had a blankie and bunny slippers—a place no one else could find. I’d still hear whatever was being said to me or about me, still hear the list of my failings, but it was muffled by a thick door. So I heard and didn’t hear.

Within a minute of driving away from The Jumble, I’d slammed that secret closet door shut. So I had absorbed but hadn’t processed what Detective Oil Slick Swinn had said to me. I didn’t come out of the closet until Grimshaw took my hand and I understood it was safe to be completely present again.

Not willing to pull away, I twisted my wrist to look at my watch. “Huh. It’s past lunchtime. I get a little shaky when I’m stressed and forget to eat.” And I hadn’t eaten anything that day except the cookie, which was not smart.

“Wait here.” He gave my hands a squeeze and stood up. Then he paused. “I didn’t properly introduce myself. I’m Ilya Sanguinati.”