Page 63 of High Intensity

“Her bedroom is not part of the crime scene,” I remind him. “You can wait out here.”

No need for him to look over my shoulder when I go through Jillian’s dresser drawers. I think she’s been violated enough.

At least they left the bedroom door closed, but when I slip inside, it’s evident the room didn’t escape scrutiny. Clearly, sometime after we left early on Tuesday morning, her closet, her dresser, and the nightstand were gone through. Even the fucking sheets on the bed are gone. It looks like they’ve been in the damn bathroom too.

No way in hell I’ll let Jillian see how badly her privacy was invaded.

I grab a bag from her closet and start shoving clothes and underwear in. In the bathroom, I add the obvious toiletries from the edge of the tub and the counter. Then I yank the door open, startling Billy Keegan, who is looking at something on his phone.

“Get fucking Bellinger back on the phone,” I bark as I brush past him.

“No need,” he says as he follows me to the kitchen. “I just got a message he’s on his way with the sheriff.”

Good. I’d rather look him in the face when I give him a piece of my mind.

I already have Jillian’s bag, the dog beds, and the contents of her fridge and freezer in a box in the truck, when the sheriff’s cruiser followed by a black Ford Expedition turn on to the driveway. Perfect goddamn timing.

I’m waiting for Bellinger to exit the SUV, my arms crossed over my chest in case I’m tempted to throw a punch.

“Mr. Wolff, I was hoping to catch you here.”

I notice Ewing walking up behind the agent, but my focus is on Bellinger.

“You took the fucking sheets?” I hiss at him.

He jerks back and I can tell he wasn’t expecting a full-frontal attack. Well, too damn bad.

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to,” he skirts.

“The bedsheets. Off the bed Jillian and I were sleeping in. In the room that was never part of any crime scene.”

“Ease up, Wolff,” Ewing tries to moderate when I get into the agent’s face.

But I’m pissed. I can’t remember the last time I was this worked up.

“You already went through her goddamn underwear drawer. That wasn’t enough of a violation of her privacy for you? You had to take the sheets off her bed?” I continue my rant.

“Now hold on a second. I guess you’ve been away from the Bureau a few too many years, so maybe you’ve forgotten standard procedure when processing a crime scene? Or has your judgment been clouded by the pretty little redhead?”

I’m surprised at Billy Keegan’s strong hold when he wraps his arms around me from behind, pinning mine to my side. Just as I was about to throw a right hook in Bellinger’s smug, fucking face.

“That’s enough,” Junior Ewing barks, stepping in front of me, waving a finger in my face. “Cool your goddamn jets, and don’t you dare take that swing, or Iwillthrow your ass in jail.”

Then he turns his back and faces off with Bellinger.

“Standard procedure? Bedsheets?”

“Just being thorough,” I hear the asshole respond. “If anything, we needed to rule out any possible involvement Ms. Lederman might have in this case.”

“What?” I can’t hold back my disbelief. “Are you nuts?”

“Surely, you don’t believe that is even a remote possibility,” Ewing expresses the same sentiment, except in milder terms.

“Look, we have the woman on camera talking to Stefano Puma in the parking lot of your hospital. There’s no way to know what they were discussing. Hell, they may have greeted each other as old friends, there’s no way to tell what was said, except for Ms. Lederman’s claims.”

“And she then turned around, told a sheriff’s deputy, and made sure everyone’s attention was drawn to the man?” I scoff, getting heated up again. “How does that even make sense? You think she willingly had someone poison her dogs? To what fucking end? What is her gain? You’re reaching, Bellinger.”

“He’s got a point,” Ewing offers his support as he steps out of the way.

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