Page 12 of Innocent Intent

“No one’s asking you not to. Only that you don’t rush to judgment.’”

“This isn’t a rush to judgment. This . . .” He motioned to the screen, “is solid evidence that she needs to explain, and until she does, she’s a prime suspect.”

“Bring her in discreetly. And get that footage over to the experts. Maybe they can see something we can’t,” Captain Jones muttered and walked off without another word. Davis rewound the footage and watched closely several more times. Unfortunately, all he had was Cassidy being there. The angle of the cameras and poor quality of the equipment prevented any solid proof of whether Cassidy remained in the vehicle or if she’d managed to slip out the other side. Even if she hadn’t, why the hell would she sit there for three hours?

You’ve got some explaining to do, Cassidy. Maybe you didn’t murder your husband, but as of now, the evidence says you could have, and you also had motive.

Detective Davis entered his house, swapping keys for the remote. The station was on SportsCenter because, on the rare occasions he watched TV, it was to catch up on his favorite teams. After listening to the latest injuries that could affect the upcoming seasons, he tossed the remote on the sofa and headed to his bedroom to shower and get comfortable.

His home was a rental in Sandy Springs that gave him proximity to the city without actually being in it. The two-bedroom ranch had been furnished with simple but cozy items he purchased online a few weeks before his move from New York. A king bedroom set made of dark wood and clean lines for his room, a two-piece leather sofa combination that came as a set that included a rug, coffee table, and one end table, and a glass-top dinette for the kitchen with brushed metal framing and ivory cushions. None of them matched or fit his personality, but they were affordable and promised to arrive on time.

He had very few personal items lying around. A handful of worn books and a few photos were about all. One of him as a child and his mother at the gym after an amateur fight; his father hadn’t shown. One of him after he got promoted to detective. He’d celebrated with a handful of cops at the bar near the precinct, and someone had snapped a photo. He’d kept it all these years and found it when packing his things in New York. The walls of his rentals were still eggshell white, with no art or accents on the walls because he rarely had time, and shopping wasn’t one of his favorite things. The place was comfortable enough.

There also hadn’t been much he’d owned in the one-bedroom he’d left behind that was worthy of crossing state lines. For six months before his transfer, Davis had been living the life of a single man after a mutual breakup with a woman he’d dated for several years.

Stacy Mitchell, his ex, came from an affluent family. At the beginning of their relationship, she seemed okay with his career choice, but things shifted a few months in when Stacy began hinting that Davis should consider law. Her father and brothers were all lawyers and owned a very prestigious firm in Manhattan. A few months after they met, he finished his tour as a uniform and applied to become a detective. That had been the extent of where he chose to take his career at that time. Stacy, however, would always tell Davis he was halfway there as a cop and might as well consider taking things a step further with a law degree. He had no interest whatsoever in attending law school, nor did he want to spend his life representing high-society elites with their civil suits and blackmail cases.

Eventually, Stacy got the message, which led to a mutual separation. She packed his things and insisted they take a break. A few months later, an engagement announcement surfaced stating that Stacy was marrying a lawyer from Los Angeles who had recently relocated to New York to work for the DA’s office. Davis cared about Stacy but didn’t care enough to be what she wanted him to be.

After his shower, Davis dressed in lounge pants and a cotton tee that hugged his upper body. He traveled back through his home, bypassing the living room for a pit stop in the kitchen to decide what his dinner for the evening would be. After a quick scan of the contents of his refrigerator, he settled on grilling some chicken with a side of steamed vegetables since he’d remembered to transfer two breasts from the freezer to the fridge before leaving the house that morning. Someone was knocking at his door before he could fully commit to the decision.

After a little over a year in a new city, Davis still didn’t have a group he considered friends, and only a handful of people knew where he lived. Most of them worked at the precinct and wouldn’t dare drop by to share a beer or check in on him. He walked through the living room and peered out the glass panels, realizing it was the last person he expected to show up at his place without an invitation. They had an understanding, or so he thought. Exhaling a sigh, he turned the lock, opened the door, and stood dead center, not allowing the misconception that she was welcome.

“What are you doing here, Sam?”

“I missed you.” She smiled in that sultry way that had gotten his attention the night they’d met and lifted both arms. In one hand, she held takeout from the place they’d met. Charlie’s. No doubt, honey bourbon wings and fries, all flats. She knew Davis about as much as any woman could. In the other hand, she held a case of IPA beers. “And I brought dinner.”

“You should have called first.”

“I did. You didn’t answer.”

He knew that, and she should have accepted that he didn’t want to be bothered. He would have called back when he felt like it. Sam shrugged and stepped forward, pushing past him. He let her. Samantha Douglass, or Sam, was a stylist Davis had met at a bar and grill close to his house a few days after moving to Atlanta. They’d shared wings, too much liquor, very little conversation, and ended up at his house. The sex was great, and the company was decent, so they hooked up a couple of times a month, but mostly when Sam reached out. Davis made it clear that he was new in town and that his focus would be on gaining his footing within the department. Sam said she understood, but here she was at his house uninvited like they did this all the time.

“Then you should have waited for me to call you back.”

Sam grinned over her shoulder, taking him in slowly from head to toe. “I’m impatient, but I’m also worth it. You eat already?”

“No,” he mumbled and joined her in the kitchen. He grabbed two plates, which he handed over before digging through a junk drawer to locate a bottle opener. He ripped open the cardboard casing protecting the beer, grabbed two and some napkins while she carried the loaded plates, and followed behind him. Once the two settled on the sofa, she kicked off her running shoes and settled next to Davis, crossing her legs while she balanced a plate of wings and fries in her lap. He sat forward with his food on the coffee table, dragging it closer for convenience.

“Oh God, these are so good. I could eat like this daily and never get tired of it.”

“Says the health nut who runs five miles a day and overdoses on green juices.” Davis tore into a wing but glanced back at Sam just in time to catch her smile.

He loved her smile . . .

His eyes lowered, taking in the fitted, lightweight hoodie she wore and matching yoga pants.

Amongst other things.

“I didn’t say I would, just that I could.” She lifted another wing and quickly cleaned the meat from the bone. “Besides, you’re no better than me. You might not run five miles a day, but you’re in the gym religiously, and boxing is hard work.”

“I don’t box,” he murmured, lifting the beer toward his lips again, taking some down.

“Pounding a heavy bag until your muscles are screaming and your knuckles are raw is pretty much boxing, Nate. Just a more civilized version.” She winked, and he chuckled, nodding in approval before tipping his beer back again.

“How are things? Business good?”

She smirked and leaned forward to grab one of the napkins he’d brought. After wiping her mouth, she answered. “Great, actually, but it’s not like you care. I know you disapprove of small talk. You don’t have to force it.”

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