Page 21 of Heartless

His boots even shine in the bad light.

“I need both of you to come with me for a few minutes,” Martha tells us quietly, beckoning me over as she does. My heart flips in my chest, though I don’t know why. It’s not like I’ve done anything wrong.

Except lying to the cops about an intruder in my house last night.

“Actually…” The officer looks between Jeremy and me. “I just need to talk to her, ma’am.” He nods in my direction and this time I jerk my chin upward like I need to deny some accusation that he hasn’t made.

The look Martha throws my way is worried, and she hesitates. “You can use my office, if that’s all right,” she saysfinally, nodding at me to set down the tray I’m still holding. “I’ll take your tables, Winnie.”

“Okay.” I have no idea what’s going on, or why this cop is here. I don’t know what I could’ve done, but my brain keeps going back to Cass being in my house the night before.

Does this officer know? Worse—does he think I’m a killer’s accomplice?

I needed you to know I didn’t kill her.Cassian’s soft voice seems to sound in my ears again, but staring into the cop’s face, my confidence waivers. Somehow, for some reason, I believed him when he was in my room last night.

And I still believe him.

The cop follows Martha to her office, where she leaves us with a worried frown in my direction. She puts a comforting hand on my shoulder as the officer walks in to sit at her desk, taking up the only chair in the room and leaving me to stand awkwardly in front of the desk.

“You can close the door,” he invites almost lazily, taking off his sunglasses to look at me with small, dark eyes.

Dislike settles in my chest as I do what he says, leaning back on the door once it’s closed. I don’t like being in a small space with a man I don’t know, and my racing heart is proof of that. He doesn’t speak right away. The officer seems content to stare me down, like I might suddenly break and confess all of my sins to him.

Joke’s on him, though. My sins have been on public record for years. The thought makes my lips twitch in amusement, but naturally he notices and leans forward to rest his arms on Martha’s desk.

“I’m Officer Trudeau,” he says at last. “You’re Winnifred Campbell.”

I don’t like when people tell me my name like it’s something they can lord over me, but I force myself to remain neutral. Ionly nod, not saying anything out loud. It’s not like he’s asking me anything. Or accused me of anything, I suppose.

“I was surprised when I looked you up in the system,” Trudeau continues. “You had a rough time of it when you were young, huh?”

“Guess so,” I reply, forcing myself not to fidget or move like I’m hiding something. I don’t cross my arms or shove my hands in my pockets. I don’t even move except to readjust my weight against the door behind me. “Do you need something from me, officer?”

Please don’t ask about last night, I beg silently.

“The police were called to your house last night by a concerned neighbor. They said they heard a struggle and saw someone in your room around one am. But then you told the police that wasn’t true, and that you’d been asleep.” His eyes never leave mine as he talks, and he drones on flatly in a voice that would put my math teacher to shame, with how lifeless he sounds.

“That’s true. Do you need me to say it again? Or elaborate?” I ask, my words bolder than I feel.

He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “Calm down, Winnifred. You’re not in trouble here, I’m sure.” I don’t like the way he adds on the wordsI’m sure, like there’s still a possibility. “You know Edith Baker, yes?”

I blink owlishly at him, running the name through my head over and over to see if I can recognize it. “No?”

“She’s one of your regulars. A good friend of Martha’s?” Officer Trudeau prods.

“Oh!” So it hadn’t been an A or C or L like I’d thought. Apparently my memory for names is worse than the average person’s, judging by how I hadn’t even realized who he meant upon hearing her name. “Yeah, I know her. She’s here every morning. Except this morning. Did, uh, did something happen?”

If this is about her, then I really can’t be in trouble. I haven’t seen her since she hugged me on Friday and told me I’d be fine before Martha bustled me into Jeremy’s care to head for the urgent care center.

“She’s dead.” He doesn’t hesitate or soften the blow in any way. And considering the way he watches me for a reaction, I can’t help but wonder if he thinks I’m going to give something away by my reaction.

And then, belatedly, I wonder what he thinks there is for me to give away.

“Holy shit,” I murmur, sagging against the door behind me. “Dead? What happened? She wasn’t sick, right?” To my knowledge, she hadn’t been older than sixty or so. That would make sense, anyway, if she really had grown up with Martha. “Was there an accident?”

“No, Winnifred.” I hate the way he says my name. It grates on my ears like a poorly tuned instrument. “There was no accident. She was found this morning around four am.”

“I was dead ass asleep,” I reply before I can think better of it.

---