“Cali McKay.”
“Miss or Mrs.?”
“Miss.”
“Miss McKay.” He walked around, sat in the chair across from her, and purposely didn’t look at Mickey. “I’m going to tell you how it is. You called us out here. You got us involved. Now you’re going to have to be up front with us.”
She glanced away as if to hide the guilt in her eyes. Was she guilty? Most were.
“You hit your boyfriend with something?” he asked, following his guilt theory.
Without looking up, she shook her head. “No. I told the other guy that we didn’t fight—not physically. ”
And evidence says you did. As a cop, he learned that evidence seldom lied. “Maybe he threatened you. So you hit him, drew blood. He went outside to his car and got his gun.” Brit’s gaze shuffled around the room again. The thing missing was the blood in the house and the sign of a struggle.
She shook her head again, only this time she raised her eyes. “No. When I got home from work, we argued, no hitting or anything bad. He left but woke me up later, banging on the door.”
“What was the fight about?” He watched her. “Well?” He hurried her so she wouldn’t have time to think up a lie.
“I wasn’t in the mood to be friendly.” She blushed.
Brit felt confident he understood the meaning of “be friendly,” and guessed the rest of the story. “So he tried to pressure you into having sex. You fought him off. What did you use?”
Her shoulders stiffened. “I told you. I didn’t hit him.” Anger flashed in her eyes.
And that’s what he’d been going for. When angry, a suspect usually gave something away. Let the truth slip out.
“There’s blood,” he said.
“I didn’t hit him!”
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”
Chapter Four
She tightened her fist around the image of Mickey’s nose. The tug on the fabric brought the hem of the nightshirt up past her knees. His gaze shifted. She had a nice pair of legs to go with those blue eyes and breasts that made Mickey look too damn good.
“I’m not lying,” she insisted.
He didn’t buy it.
“So he wanted to do the deed and you refused. Some guys don’t like to be told no. It’s understandable that you’d fight him off.” And he did understand. He didn’t blame a woman for fighting off a jerk who….
“You’re not very nice,” she blurted out. “I like the other officer better. Can you bring him back?” Lips pursed, she stared at him. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
He stood up. Some less aggressive part of his brain told him to back down. But for once, he just wanted to get to the truth. For three freaking weeks, he’d sought the truth about Keith’s death. He’d found nothing but dead ends. Zero. Zip.
“How long have you known this boyfriend, and what did you say his name was?”
“Stan Humphrey.”
She only answered one part of his two-part question. And he could guess why. “You haven’t known this guy very long, have you?”
“He was just staying here until he could move into his own apartment.” She clutched another handful of Mickey. Brit’s gaze fell to her legs before he could stop himself. Yup, nice legs.
Brit saw Quarles at the door, talking to the rookie Anderson. He swung around and joined them on the threshold. “Find anything out here?”
The man motioned him outside. The moment they cleared the door, his new partner came too damn close again. “You might want to ease up on the chick.”
Brit took a step back. “Are you telling me how to do my job?”
“We’re all uptight about Keith,” Quarles said. “But—”
“You didn’t even fucking know him. So back off.” Brit spoke low, but his tone hit the dead serious range. He swung back inside and stared at an empty sofa. A noise came from the kitchen. Ease up on the chick. Quarles’ words replayed in Brit’s head. Damn it, Quarles had a point. He just didn’t want him jabbing him with it.
He got to the doorway just as she pulled out a large knife from the kitchen drawer. “Put it down,” he told her.
She swung around and knife pointing at him. “I’m not going to use it on you. Even if you were being a jerk.” She looked at her wrist and pointed the knife downward.
“I don’t want you using it on yourself either,” he said his tone curt.
Her gaze shot back up. Her mouth dropped open a bit. “I just want to get this dang bracelet off.” She tossed the knife in the sink. It clattered against the white ceramic.
He remembered her fidgeting with the bracelet earlier. Okay, he believed her. He believed a lot of what she’d told him tonight, too. She hadn’t hit anyone. Not a fighter, this one. Just a doormat. And he’d pretty much wiped his shoes off on her, too.
Remorse tightened the muscles in his shoulder blades. He noticed the silhouette of body under the thin Mickey Mouse night shirt and looked back at the sink. Silence filled the room.
When he looked back at her, she fidgeted with the bracelet again. He reached for her hand. “Let me help.”