Page 95 of Not That Impossible

“Well?” Liam said.

I opened and shut my mouth.

He shifted impatiently.

The genius words that came out of me were, “Did you have a nice date with Ray?”

“Yes,” Liam said. “He’s a spectacular kisser. Now, do you have any appropriate questions, or are you just here to waste my time?”

Spectacular…? I glared at Liam’s lips. They flattened into a hard line.

I wanted to lean over that tape and show him spectacular.

But, no.

Last time I was here on the job, I shoved him. I wasnotgoing to outdo myself by kissing him.

Even though I really wanted to.

I clicked my pen aggressively. “I have some questions,” I said. “I have lots of them.”

Liam waited with raised eyebrows. “Are you going to ask them?” he said eventually.

“Yes. Do you think Ray is a sociopathic murderer hiding behind his pretty looks and a sweet-as-honey persona, lulling the community as he commits evil and stashes bodies in his house then calls it in to the police to fulfil an aching need for attention?”

Liam looked at me levelly. “No.”

Holding his gaze, I flipped my notebook closed. “No more questions.”

We were still staring at each other when there was a kerfuffle at the front door and Ray appeared. He was pale and hunched. Even from here, I could tell his eyes were slightly unfocused.

“Nash,” DS Patel called, and lifted her chin in Ray’s direction.

Liam strode off and scooted Ray back into the house.

I picked up my phone, hoping it still worked, and dialled Ralph.

“Talk to me,” Ralph said when the call connected.

“I want the front page,” I said. “I don’t care about the breaking news piece on the website. Let Mrs Strickland have it. But, Ralph? I’m going to write you an article for tomorrow’s edition.” I took a deep breath. “Stop the presses.”

“You know the drill. I can hold it until four. I need it in my inbox by then to get it to the printers.”

“You’ll have it.”

“And try to at least run a spellcheck if you slide it in under the wire again, okay?”

“I can’t promise that, Ralph,” I said. “But it will be there.”

21

Ineeded to get the article written and sent by four o’clock. It was a little after twelve now.

No problem.

I needed an outline, I needed photos, and then I needed to get my arse home and in front of my computer.

I didn’t know if photographing a crime scene was technically legal or not, so I crossed back to Mrs Hughes’ house and sat on the kerb, ignoring the cold bite of stone through my sweatpants. I got my phone out and kept things covert as I snapped the scene.

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