Page 8 of Saving Sophia

But not murder. He hadn’t said murder and surely that was a bigger crime than any of those.

“Why would you bring me in for any of that? I’m nobody?”

“We’re questioning employees brought in from the raid.”

“What raid?”

“Sir,” the formerly silent officer by the door said. We both looked at him. “She was caught coming out the back a few minutes before the raid went down. They brought her in early so she couldn’t tip anyone off inside.”

Understanding bloomed in Detective Valero’s eyes.

“You really are just a waitress, and you have no idea why you’re here, do you?”

Okay, his dismissal of me wasn’t the bigger picture point, but it still hurt. I knew my own insignificance. He didn’t have to rub it in.

“I’m sorry. Let me start over.” His face was neutral and calm, as if I were a child lost in a department store. “Hi, Sophia. I’m Detective Valero.”

“Hello,” I mumbled. Oh man, I was an idiot.

“We conducted a raid on your club this evening, and now we’re questioning employees about any illegal activities going on there.”

It all finally fell into place. It was a big, awful coincidence. The cops were investigating the club and happened to do a raid right after Mr. Roscoe committed a murder that I stumbled into witnessing. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I really was expendable cocktail waitress number two, and expendable was exactly what I would be if I blurted out what I saw. The detective was already doubting my credibility. If they raided the place, they clearly didn’t find any evidence of the murder. So Mr. Roscoe must have cleaned things up somehow. I would sound like a lunatic. They weren’t even ready to arrest him yet. If he was free, and I talked to the cops …

There was too much I didn’t know to take any chances.

“I’m sorry, detective, but I really am just a waitress. I don’t have any information about any illegal activities.” I squirmed in the uncomfortable chair, flicking my eyes down to my lap. “I wish I could be of more help.”

I hoped I sounded reasonable and sincere.

Detective Valero frowned then stood up, his chair scraping harshly against the gritty linoleum floor. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Butler.” He pulled a card from the same pocket his pen had been in and slid it across the table. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”

“I will.” I took the card, looking at it and nodding so he’d believe me. I half-stood and collected my bag, tucking the card into a pocket. “Can I go?”

He sighed and glanced at the officer by the door then back to me. “I need you to sign some paperwork first.” He walked to the door. A muffled buzzing sound happened and he pulled it open. “Down the hall. The officer will take you. Then you can go.”

I followed them out through the interrogation room door, not at all sure if I was escaping or sealing my fate.

“Wait here, Ms. Butler.” The officer pointed to a row of green vinyl chairs along the wall near an old wooden door with frosted glass.

When he walked away, I sat down in the chair closest to the door, propped my elbows on my knees, and dropped my face into my hands, letting out an undignified, gulping half-sigh, half-cry.

I glared down at the stupid platform gladiator sandals hanging unbuckled around my ankles. I hadn’t done up the clasps properly in my hurry. The straps sagged, looking as hopeless as I felt.

“You okay?” a rich masculine voice rumbled from two seats away.

I almost jumped out of my skin, letting out a surprised little squeak. I hadn’t noticed him when I collapsed into my seat.

“Sorry,” I said, catching my breath and reaching down to buckle my traitorous shoes, as if he hadn’t caught me crying into my hands. “I’m fine. Just … loose.” I bit back a groan. Why did I speak? “Gotta strap up … these.”

“They look complicated.” His voice was warm and kind so I snuck a look at him as I buckled up my shoes.

Holy Toledo. He was handsome, like Kindle romance hero handsome. He watched me, his lips pulled up into a half smile, the angle of his jaw shadowed by a tidy goatee a few shades darker than his sandy hair. His eyes were a delicious cashmere gray flecked with amber and gold and framed by well-groomed brows, slightly lifted in curiosity. One hand rested on his knee as he leaned forward to hear my answer, the other hand thoughtfully scratching his chin. He wore an expensive-looking suit jacket in a sharp navy blue, with a crisp button-up shirt but no tie. He looked professional and sexy, yet still laid back.

My foot made an embarrassing squelch as it slipped against the obstinate buckles.

“There’s beer in them,” I tried to explain. Could this day possibly get any worse?

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