Page 2 of The Consequences of Love and Vengeance

After pushing my chair back and away from my desk, I stand. I should have waited. His dirty eyes roam down my body in slow motion. It’s sleazy and about as unprofessional as you can get.

Lance is a beefy guy but looks more swollen from steroid use rather than a man who’s worked his ass off to get thick arms and legs. This type is not a turn-on. It’s gross with all his veins popping through his skin.

The way his perverted eyes climb back up my body only makes me want to vomit.

I grab the blazer hanging from the back of my chair and quickly pull it on, covering my red button-up blouse by fastening one of the buttons. Luckily, the bulletproof vest I wear when I’m out in the field helps to smoosh my breasts down. They aren’t huge, but they aren’t small either. I fill out a C-cup to the point they’re almost spilling out of my bra.

“Was there anything else?” I ask the man who has a wife, for crying out loud. I wonder if she knows her husband is a cheating douche-prick?

“Yeah, I’m out.” He turns to leave, making me momentarily relieved until he pauses, then pivots back around to face me. “Take a notepad. Make sure your shit’s right. No fuck ups on this one.”

He walks off before my mind catches up with his words, not giving me a chance to question him.

Excuse me?

I don’t screw up. The fact that Houston wants to imply I have pisses me off. There has been more than one occasion when he’s been in a sling with our boss because of something he failed to do. Not me.

Snatching my notepad and a pen off my desk, I march toward the interview room. Walking in, my brown gaze lands on a girl with medium-length, wavy, golden blonde hair. She can’t be more than twenty years old, slouched back in one of the four plastic chairs around the metal table, playing or texting on her smartphone.

My eyes cut to the table with an infant’s car seat parked on top, facing away from me. By the sounds coming from it, there’s a baby softly crying inside it.

I close the door, and she briefly looks up but goes back to paying attention to her device. Something tells me this is going to be afuninterview.

One thing I’ve learned—it’s always best to play “good cop” first. You typically pull more information from people when they think you’re on their side. You catch more flies with honey, as they say.

I can’t tell you how many times that’s paid off—thanks to Detective Michael Manning. Since becoming a detective two years ago, Mike has taken me under his wing. He’s helped make me the detective I am today. Honing my interviewing and interrogating skills has been one of the best things he’s done for me.

“I’m Detective Brianna Andrews, and you are?”

I approach the chair closest to the young woman, pull it away from the table, and take a seat facing her.

“Chasity.”

“And your last name?” I inquire.

She stops fiddling with her phone, straightens her posture, and finally looks up but doesn’t direct her eyes to mine. Instead, she looks to the side of my face with a forced expression.

“Carlisle,” she finally admits. “Chasity Carlisle.”

She blinks in rapid succession.

“Is it Miss Carlisle?” I ask, not assuming by her young age that she wouldn’t be married.

“Yes.”

“What is it I can do for you, Miss Carlisle?” I jot her name down on my pad while I continue. “Detective Houston mentioned you needed to make a statement.”

“Riiight,” she draws out.

I glance back up as the baby’s crying intensifies. My eyes cut over, expecting its mother to get a handle on him or her, but she doesn’t budge, not even acknowledging her kid.

My attention returns to Miss Carlisle, but apparently, I’ve been eyeing her questionably far too long when she rolls her eyes. “He’s fine.” She sighs, blowing out an irritated breath.

After a moment, her eyes narrow, and she finally looks directly into mine for the first time, making me think I’ve struck a nerve. For whatever reason, that gives me a semblance of joy that it shouldn’t.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply he wasn’t.”

Yes, I was. And she knows it.

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