Page 18 of Blood and Buttercups

Was…notis. Past tense.

I breathe in deeply, trying very hard to keep the water in my stomach.

“We suspect he might have crossed the wrong person,” the second officer says. “Are you sure you know nothing about it?”

This is insane. Kevin worked as an assistant manager at Lilly Lu’s, a local boutique that sells expensive second-hand babyclothes. He was more likely to join a boy band than start selling drugs.

“Kevin was a cheating ba—” I cut myself off and choose my words more carefully. “Bad boyfriend, but he wasn’t involved in any sort of drug deal. I don’t know how that cocaine got in there, but it wasn’t him.”

The man nods, jots something else on his clipboard, and then stands. “So he never tried to sell or give you illegal substances?”

“No!”

He eyes me. “And you’re not on drugs now?”

“NO.”

“Would you be willing to take a urine test?”

“Yes.” I’ll pee in a freaking cup if it will convince them I didn’t murder Kevin and steal his stash.

His stash.

Another wave of nausea hits me, but I choke it back.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Edwards,” the other cop says. “I don’t believe a drug test will be necessary at this time.”

They stand, and I hesitantly rise to my feet. “I’m done?”

“Yes, you’re free to go,” the officer who brought me in says, and then he frowns. “You might want to put something on that burn.”

I’m not in the mood for his helpful advice, but I nod. “I’ll do that.”

Now that I’m pretty sure I’m not going to jail, I take a moment to read his name badge: Officer Kerrington. He’s not hot like cops in romance books, but with short-cut brown hair and brown eyes, he’s good-looking.

“I’d be happy to give you a lift home.” Officer Kerrington smiles for the first time. “If you’d like.”

If I hadn’t had the most ridiculous forty-eight hours of my life, I might flirt a little. But my ex-drug-dealing boyfriend isdead, a wannabe-vampire’s contact info has been planted in my phone, and I’m fried to a crisp.

“I don’t have any other way to get back,” I point out with a sigh, suddenly exhausted. “So sure.”

I follow him back through the station and out to his car.

“So…” he says when we’re on the road, glancing over with a smile. “Flower farming, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Where do you grow them?”

“In my backyard.”

“I was picturing a field or something.”

I shrug, not wanting to have this conversation.

He goes quiet, and then he looks at me again. “You doing okay? I imagine this is a lot to take in.”

“It feels surreal,” I admit. “I’m not sure I’ve wrapped my head around it yet.”

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