Page 5 of Wicked Sin

Digging out the key fob for my car, I shove through the door, catch it as I step out, and push it closed again in one fluid motion. If he’s loitering to get inside without permission, it won’t be because of me.

I beeline toward my car. When I’m thirty feet away, I tap the fob.

Nothing happens. Nothing from the car, anyway.

The guy—taller and bigger out here in the lot—appears to my right. “Ms. Reid?”

I keep going. Maybe he’s a process server. Maybe he’s paparazzi. Whoever he is, whatever he is, we’re not doing this here.Damn it, how did he find me?I tap the key fob again, and the lights don’t flash. Fucking hell.

“A moment of your time, please.” He says it like it’s not a request. And then he flashes a badge. “LAPD.”

That pulls me up short.

The cops?

Inside my bag, my phone vibrates against my thigh.

I’m starting to think I should have checked those messages before I stepped outside. “I’m running late for something,” I lie.

“I’m Detective Vasquez,” he says, like I didn’t just tell him I can’t do this right now.

Or ever.

“No, thanks.”

He laughs. “That’s not a response to what I just said, princess.”

I whip my frowning face around so I can glare at him. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t blink. “Excellent. Now that I have your attention—”

“How long have you been loitering here in the hopes of accosting me?”

“A while. I have some questions for you. If here isn’t good, we can go down to the precinct.”

It’s been a while since I’ve been questioned by the police. Not long enough to forget all the rules about not exposing myself to any legal liability. “I’ll call my attorney.” I don’t have a lawyer right now, but I can find one. My name is good enough to ensure someone would get a decent payday out of whatever bullshit this is.

He frowns. “Were you instructed to say that by your father?”

“I haven’t spoken to my father in over a year.” I definitely should have checked my messages. Cold dread slithers through my belly. “What’s happened?”

One eyebrow jacks up. Shit. “You haven’t heard.”

I point to the building behind me. “I turn my phone off when I’m at work. I’ve been here all day.”

“Your father was arrested today.”

Again. The proper sentence there should be,your father was arrested again today.It’s happened before, it will happen again.

I force anI don’t caresmile to my face. “That sounds like a personal problem for him. I don’t have any contact with my parents.”

Anymore. The proper sentence would be,I don’t have any contact with my parents anymore.Qualifying words matter. They’re the difference between the truth and something that falls short of honesty.

“Do you watch the news?”

“No.” I give him my best cool, I-can’t-be-bothered look. It’s none of his business that watching the news is triggering for me, and I avoid it for my fragile mental health.

“Can we go somewhere to talk?” He points at the building. My office. “Look, I’m going to be straight with you. We got a tip that you’re moving stuff out of your car.”

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