But she wanted him to touch her. God, she really was crazy.
“And the blue stuff was disinfectant. It burned like hell before she died.”
His eyes were unreadable. “What size shoe do you wear, Max?”
“Huh?” With anyone else, she would have suspected it was a non-sequitor. But not Witt. His use of her first name trickled like acid down her spine.
“Better open that door and let me check your shoes, Max.”
She did, taking a step back, turned on her heel, wobbled, caught herself with a hand on the wall, then climbed the stairs.
Buzzard lay amid the tangled sheets of her unmade bed. Max pointed to her small closet. Witt opened the door, ignored the two pairs of high heels, and picked up her black suede half-boots.
“Size eight,” she supplied.
He turned them, ran a cursory finger along the tread. Her shoes appeared abnormally tiny in those big hands of his. Putting them down, he squatted to look at her white tennies, followed the same procedure. “Is this all?”
“Imelda Marcos I’m not.”
He didn’t laugh, didn’t ease her tension one bit. His body filled her small abode to capacity, causing near asphyxiation. He rose, peered into the bathroom, then crossed the room to pull up the bedspread hanging over the side and look beneath.
“I assure you, I only have four pairs.”
He stood with his hands at his waist, massive thighs spread. “Spartan,” was his only comment.
“Did I pass your test?”
“I have more questions before I decide.”
“Fire away.” She offered the detective the only chair available, the one at her small desk. He didn’t take it.
“Tell me how you know so much.”
She would have liked to take the chair herself. Instead she admitted, “I have dreams.”
He didn’t make it easy for her.
Max went ahead and signed her own death warrant. “I dreamed I found Wendy’s body. She wore a long black skirt and a silk blouse when she died.” She bit her lip. “And there was a piece of green paper on the floor by her hand.”
For a big man, he was awfully still, not even the tick of a muscle betrayed what he was thinking.
“It had a flight number on it. 452.”
“You killed her,” he murmured, almost in wonder. “Didn’t you?”
She should have been terrified, but with the strange excitement that suddenly gripped her, the accusation went right over her head. “Is it true? Was she wearing black and white? Was there a green note?”
As horrifying as the dreams had been, as tangible as Wendy felt inside her, she’d never quite believed this could all be real. She still wasn’t sure Cameron hadn’t given the dreams to her for his own abominable reasons.
Witt neither confirmed nor denied what she’d seen. He simply ignored the questions altogether. “What about Lilah?”
“I dreamed I was her. And I was murdered.”
“Who did it?”
She widened her eyes, mocking him. “I thought you said I did.”
“I asked you who did it?” His voice was harsh, the words grating.
“I couldn’t see. He was behind me.”
“He?”
She rubbed at her temples, squeezed her eyes shut a moment. “I’m not sure. I never saw him. And the voice could have been either gender. But aren’t killers”—she spread her arms, then let them flop down to her sides—“usually male?”
He gave her a penetrating stare that made her squirm. “No, they aren’t. Tell me the rest.”
She swallowed. “He held my arms back so I couldn’t pull the stick out. I couldn’t breath. I kicked, thrashed around, knocked everything over. But he wouldn’t let go. Then...I died.” Her description didn’t come close to the horror of it.
Witt sat on her hard desk chair. Rather he plunked down on it as if his legs suddenly gave out. “Are you saying you’re psychic?”
She didn’t hesitate for a moment. “Of course not.”
“If you are, then who did it?”
“I said I’m not psychic.”
He scrubbed a big paw down his face, then stared at her. Hard. “Max, if you don’t have an alibi for last night, I suggest you manufacture one ASAP.”
Was he trying to protect her now? “Are you going to arrest me?”
He stared at her, said nothing.
Max shivered. “But I have the wrong shoe size, and the tread doesn’t match.”
He didn’t confirm it. One blond eyebrow rose. He stood. “Give me your hand, Max.”
“You want me to just rip it off and give you the bloody stump?”
He didn’t laugh. She wished she could.
“Your hand.”
She held it out. “Haven’t you had enough hand holding, Detective?”
Grabbing her left wrist, he placed his right hand against hers. His hands were warm; he probably always had hot hands. Hers were frozen. When he touched her, her thoughts froze, too. The tips of her new Cajun Spice nails didn’t reach the ends of his fingers. Damn, she should have used that nail polisher remover last night. She watched his face as he mentally measured, sure he didn’t feel the electric current arc between their fingertips.