remembered the knife in my hand and quickly stuffed it in the sofa table drawer before releasing the chain and opening the door. I stepped to the side so he could enter.
“Detective Tegan, Atlanta PD,” he repeated, stopping in front of me to offer his hand. “Ms. Deen. May I call you Catherine?”
“Cat,” I corrected, automatically reaching out to grasp his proffered hand. It was big and rough and warm and it made me shiver just a little. I’d never felt so self-conscious—or so aware.
“Cat,” he repeated, his icyblue eyes locked onto mine.
His presence overwhelmed the small space of my living room, filling it with an intimidating masculinity I wasn’t used to. I could see him scanning the room, taking it all in: brick-colored furniture, warm wood floors, pale yellow walls. He walked around the loveseat and sat, leaning back against the pillows, throwing one arm across the back, obviously very much at ease.
I shut the door, leaving the locks open in case I needed to make a hasty escape. I moved past the loveseat to sit on the sofa. The two pieces faced one another and, like two puffy parentheses, framed the fireplace that dominated one wall of the room.
I sat carefully, perching on the edge of the cushion. My knees were clamped together so tightly my thighs ached, but I wasn’t about to relax them.
“How can I help you?” Hands clasped in my lap, I tried not to fidget.
The detective’s eyes shifted to my chest and I realized that my posture had my more-than-a-handful breasts straining against the thin material of my silky robe. My nipples puckered tightly in response to his scrutiny. My cheeks burned with embarrassment.
“How can I help you?” I repeated, trying to appear calm and unaffected by the combination of my dishabille and his presence, but it was a gargantuan effort. My insides were quivering.
“I’m sorry to bother you so late and without calling in advance, but I was in the area and thought I’d stop and speak with you before heading back into the city,” he explained. “I’d like to go over what you saw this evening.”
“I’ve already told the police everything I know. I’m sure it’s all in the report.” I didn’t want to go over the whole thing again. I just wanted to try and forget about it so I could get some sleep. I’d have plenty of time to think about it the next day, and the next, and the next. I could be deeply scarred and profoundly traumatized then.
“I read the report, but I’d like to hear your first-hand account,” he stated, his cool blue gaze direct and unwavering. I doubted he’d leave until I gave him what he wanted so I yielded with as much grace as I could muster under the circumstances, which wasn’t much.
“Oh, alright,” I said on a sigh.
I went through the entire ordeal again. He only stopped me twice to ask questions. When I was finished, Detective Tegan watched me thoughtfully for a few excruciatingly long seconds then scooted to the edge of his seat with a humph.
“Well?” I prompted, expecting him to declare that my uncanny powers of observation and recollection had pointed him to the killer and he was leaving to go arrest him posthaste.
Instead, with the tight dismissive smile that only law enforcement officials can achieve, he said, “I appreciate your cooperation. I guess it’s time I get back to Atlanta,” which told me absolutely nothing.
I rose as he did and walked behind him to the door. He turned to me, hand on the knob, and asked suspiciously, “When had you been in the house last?”
“I-I’m not sure. I’d have to check.”
Another humph.
He’d opened the door and stepped onto the porch when I realized that I hadn’t mentioned the vortex symbol on the window. “Have they figured out what that marking was?”
“You saw that?” His expression was suddenly intense.
“That swirly thing? Yeah,” I admitted, wondering why he was watching me so
“Detective Tegan, Atlanta PD,” he repeated, stopping in front of me to offer his hand. “Ms. Deen. May I call you Catherine?”
“Cat,” I corrected, automatically reaching out to grasp his proffered hand. It was big and rough and warm and it made me shiver just a little. I’d never felt so self-conscious—or so aware.
“Cat,” he repeated, his icyblue eyes locked onto mine.
His presence overwhelmed the small space of my living room, filling it with an intimidating masculinity I wasn’t used to. I could see him scanning the room, taking it all in: brick-colored furniture, warm wood floors, pale yellow walls. He walked around the loveseat and sat, leaning back against the pillows, throwing one arm across the back, obviously very much at ease.
I shut the door, leaving the locks open in case I needed to make a hasty escape. I moved past the loveseat to sit on the sofa. The two pieces faced one another and, like two puffy parentheses, framed the fireplace that dominated one wall of the room.
I sat carefully, perching on the edge of the cushion. My knees were clamped together so tightly my thighs ached, but I wasn’t about to relax them.
“How can I help you?” Hands clasped in my lap, I tried not to fidget.
The detective’s eyes shifted to my chest and I realized that my posture had my more-than-a-handful breasts straining against the thin material of my silky robe. My nipples puckered tightly in response to his scrutiny. My cheeks burned with embarrassment.
“How can I help you?” I repeated, trying to appear calm and unaffected by the combination of my dishabille and his presence, but it was a gargantuan effort. My insides were quivering.
“I’m sorry to bother you so late and without calling in advance, but I was in the area and thought I’d stop and speak with you before heading back into the city,” he explained. “I’d like to go over what you saw this evening.”
“I’ve already told the police everything I know. I’m sure it’s all in the report.” I didn’t want to go over the whole thing again. I just wanted to try and forget about it so I could get some sleep. I’d have plenty of time to think about it the next day, and the next, and the next. I could be deeply scarred and profoundly traumatized then.
“I read the report, but I’d like to hear your first-hand account,” he stated, his cool blue gaze direct and unwavering. I doubted he’d leave until I gave him what he wanted so I yielded with as much grace as I could muster under the circumstances, which wasn’t much.
“Oh, alright,” I said on a sigh.
I went through the entire ordeal again. He only stopped me twice to ask questions. When I was finished, Detective Tegan watched me thoughtfully for a few excruciatingly long seconds then scooted to the edge of his seat with a humph.
“Well?” I prompted, expecting him to declare that my uncanny powers of observation and recollection had pointed him to the killer and he was leaving to go arrest him posthaste.
Instead, with the tight dismissive smile that only law enforcement officials can achieve, he said, “I appreciate your cooperation. I guess it’s time I get back to Atlanta,” which told me absolutely nothing.
I rose as he did and walked behind him to the door. He turned to me, hand on the knob, and asked suspiciously, “When had you been in the house last?”
“I-I’m not sure. I’d have to check.”
Another humph.
He’d opened the door and stepped onto the porch when I realized that I hadn’t mentioned the vortex symbol on the window. “Have they figured out what that marking was?”
“You saw that?” His expression was suddenly intense.
“That swirly thing? Yeah,” I admitted, wondering why he was watching me so
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