Page 16 of Blood and Buttercups

“We agree,” the officer says. “Which is why we need you to come in and answer a few questions.”

I stare at him, stupefied, and my pulse skyrockets. “You don’t think… Surely, you don’t suspect that I…” My voice drops to a whisper. “I didn’t kill him!”

“We just need to ask you a few questions.”

I’m a suspect. Oh my freaking heck, they think I killed Kevin.

Kevin’s dead.

Too numb to respond, I push myself to my feet, nearly blacking out when I stand.

“Do I have to ride in the back?” I whisper, glancing at his car and then the houses down the street.

What will the neighbors think?

The man shakes his head. “We’re not arresting you.”

Yet.

He doesn’t have to say it—we both know.

“Can I change first?” I look down at my gardening outfit. Even my legs are burned.

“It would be best if we went now.”

“Can I at least grab my phone? It’s just in the kitchen. You can come with me if you want.”

I’m not sure inviting the man into my house is the best idea, but I don’t want him to think I’m running.

“Go on,” he says, jerking his head.

I hurry into the kitchen and snatch my phone. Before I head out, I send Olivia a quick text.

Piper: A cop is here saying I have to go to the station for questioning. If you don’t hear back from me, please bail me out of jail.

I then stash the phone in my back pocket and follow the man down the drive. He opens the passenger door of his police cruiser, and I scoot inside, wincing as my burned skin touches the warm vinyl seat.

As I look around, I realize I just walked into another movie scenario—this one a crime show. What is up with my life right now?

Every few minutes, an image of lifeless, pale Kevin leaps unbidden into my mind, and my stomach rolls. I don’t know what the officer would do if I threw up in his car, but I don’t think he’d be pleased.

Thankfully, I make it to the station without vomiting, and I follow the man inside.

They lead me into a room for questioning, and I sit in an orange, molded plastic chair. While waiting for them to begin, I surreptitiously rub my sweating hands on my jean shorts.

Suddenly, a horrible thought leaps into my head. What if they arrest me? Are they going to take a mug shot? I look like the victim of a tanning bed accident.

“We’ll begin shortly,” the officer says. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water?”

“I’ll take water,” I say, my voice shaking with nerves.

He nods and disappears out the door. There’s a mirror across from me, and though I don’t watch many crime dramas, I know how it works. How many people are sitting on the other side?

The officer returns with a paper cup of water and sits across from me. Another man is with him this time, this one a little older.

Which cop is the bad one?

The hysterical thought almost makes me laugh out loud, but looking insane probably won’t do me any favors right now, so I control myself.

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