Page 139 of Snared Rider

I don’t mention our messy history. I’m not telling him something I haven’t even told my father.

His eyes bore into my face for so long I want to shift in my seat, then he slowly lowers his gaze to his pad. I watch as his pen moves back and forth over the paper, my leg jiggling a little.

What the heck is he writing?

“Does Mr Harlow have any enemies that you know of?”

“I don’t know. I don’t live here. I was only in town for a visit. Honestly, I have no idea what goes on in Logan’s life.”

And this is sadly true. I get snippets here and there from Dean, Kenz, even Dorothy and Dad, but that’s all they are: snippets. It’s different being in the life. Hanging around the clubhouse you pick up information here and there. However, even if I knew all the intimate details of the Club I wouldn’t tell DCI Morgan a thing.

“And where do you normally reside?”

“Chelsea, London.” He also jots this down on his small notepad. Only once his hand stills does he look back up at me.

“You were involved in an incident earlier in the week, right?”

I guess my free ride in the back of an ambulance was flagged during his investigation.

Great.

I give him a tired smile.

“Yeah, I was on the back of one of the boy’s bikes. I came off. I got three broken ribs out of that misadventure. I probably should try to remember I’m not twenty anymore.”

My attempt at levity falls flat on its arse. He’s not amused. Then again, neither am I. There was nothing funny about that crash.

“The police didn’t speak to you about the accident?” The way he says accident makes it clear he isn’t convinced it was one. This tells me he’s good police because he’s right on the money.

“I didn’t know anything to tell them. It happened so fast.”

He stares at me for a moment before his gaze goes back to his pad.

“It seems to me you don’t know a lot about anything you’re involved in.”

I rile at his barbed words, my head snapping back. Then I steel myself and sneer at him.

“Well, excuse me; I’m not exactly versed in high-stress situations, DCI Morgan. I’m sorry if my reactions don’t suit you.”

He gives me a tight-lipped smile—the only other emotion he has shown outside of annoyed and indifferent.

“Witnesses at that scene said you told them you were—” he thumbs back through the pages, stopping when he reaches the right place and reads, “—run off the road.”

Did I say that?

Shit, I don’t remember.

In the aftermath, I’d been so shocked anything could have come out of my mouth. I keep my expression neutral.

“I don’t know where they got that from. It was an accident, nothing more.”

His gaze is penetrating, and for a moment I wonder if he can pull all the lies from my head. He doesn’t seem like a man to give up easily when he knows there is a thread to be pulled. He also strikes me as a man who will pull those threads, even if it means unravelling the entire garment.

“Seems to me,” he says, leaning towards me, “there’s a run of bad luck going around and you’re in the middle of it all, Miss Goddard.”

My body goes solid at his words, at his tone. I give him a weak smile.

“Well, if I didn’t have bad luck I probably wouldn’t have any luck at all.”

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