“I can handle it.”
“Even if Ryder is involved?”
No.
“Yes, even if Ryder is involved. I know how to do my job and keep my heart out of the equation.”
That look in her eyes, the one that was probably pity, told me she didn’t believe me, but was nice enough not to call me out on it.
“I’ve seen the bruises you think you’re hiding,” I said softly.
She frowned, then stared out the window at the rain. “I’m not hiding them.”
“Yes, you are.” I pressed my palm on her knee. “Myra. What’s going on? Where are you getting those bruises?”
Her eyes narrowed a bit and spots of red flushed her face.
“It’s okay,” I said. “You can tell me. Is it a man? Are you dating someone? In secret? Did someone hit you?”
“What?”
I’d never heard her voice so high. “Oh, my gods, Delaney! You think? You think I would just let...” She shut her mouth, eyes flitting back and forth, trying to read the worry, and yes, confusion on my face.
“I’m a trained police officer. Nobody hits me and gets away with it.”
“Then why are you bruised? On your arms. On your hip.”
She exhaled and laughed. “You really think I’d hide something like that from you?”
“You are hiding that from me.”
“But not for those reasons. Come on. We’re sisters. You know I’d have you at my back the instant anyone tried to hurt me like that. We promised. We all promised each other when we were in middle school, and Jean took that head shot in dodgeball, remember?”
“I remember.” Jean had still been in elementary school. Little Tommy Richard had been a headhunting jerk when playing dodgeball. He targeted the girls and hit them with the ball as hard as he could when the teacher wasn’t looking. Usually in the face.
Myra and I stole our Dad’s police department T-shirts, made fake brass knuckles, and cornered Tommy after school. I recited police codes at him while Myra explained what they meant.
“You touch our sister again and you’ll be 12-16A.”
“A fatal accident.”
“You hit her in the head at dodgeball, or in PE, or the halls, or anywhere, and there’s gonna be 12-49A.”
“Possible homicide.”
We were really selling it, slamming our fake brass knuckles into our palms and closing in on him.
Since we were older and taller than him and he was only ten, he went pale and sweaty and made a break for it.
“You better run. You 12-19!”
That was request for tow truck, but I’d been sort of in the moment and hadn’t memorized all the really cool codes yet.
“I just thought.” I sighed, and rubbed my hand over my face. “It’s been a weird few days. I’m glad it’s not what I thought it might be.”
“Good,” she said. “Good.”
“But I still want to know why you’re hiding bruises.”
“I’m not hiding. I’m...uh, sort of joined a team.”
“Wrestling?”
“No.”
“Martial arts?”
“No.”
“Circus performers? Dance troupe? Cheer Squad? Want to help me out here?”
“Roller Derby.”
“Roller Derby. We have that?”
“No. Salem has it. Cherry City Derby Girls.”
For all that my sisters and I are really close, it’s not like we don’t get days off. Salem, Oregon’s capitol, was only an hour’s drive east from Ordinary. There would be plenty of opportunities for her to drive there for practice and games.
Plus, Myra had seemed a lot more relaxed lately.
“You like it?”
A wicked little smile curved her mouth. “Love it.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t approve?”
“No. I just...I just needed something away from here, you know? Something my own. A place to clear my head and not have to deal with...”
“Everything?”
She nodded.
I patted her knee. “Good. Can I come to a bout sometime?”
From the look on her face, it was just what she needed to hear.
“I’d like that.”
“All right. Back to the station?” I started the Jeep.
“Maybe you should take a long lunch and get some rest instead.”
“Do I look that bad?”
“No,” she lied. “But you haven’t taken a break today have you?”
“Not since drinking tea with the vampires.”
“Take an hour or two. We’ll hold down the fort. Maybe you can get a nap.” At the mention of it, it was suddenly exactly what I wanted.
She was good at that too.
Chapter 9
I found myself standing in the middle of my living room, arms wrapped around my elbows, staring at nothing.
My coat was thrown on top of my couch and I only had one boot off. I inhaled, exhaled, digging up out of my funk.
Sven had seen Ryder when he died.
Unless that was a vampire trick—an implanted suggestion.
Ryder wasn’t on the tape.
That wasn’t Ryder’s hand.
Was it?
My thoughts circled again, questions that just made more questions and answers that couldn’t be proved.
What if he’s guilty?
I’d stop loving him. Right? I’d have to. No one loved a murderer.
Liar, my heart whispered.
A knock at the door brought me fully conscious. I glanced at the throw blanket I’d been planning to crawl under, then pushed my shoulders back and walked to the door.
I opened it without glancing outside first.
I should never do that.
“Hey.” Ryder held a bottle of wine in one hand and his heart in his gaze. “Got a minute?”
I should say no. I should tell him to leave. Tell him I didn’t want to see him, couldn’t see him alone like this.
Don’t be sexy. Don’t be a murderer. Don’t be a sexy murderer.
He bit his lower lip and I was a goner.
“Sure.” I stepped back, let him into the house and shut the door. “Wine?”
He glanced down at it like he wasn’t sure it should be there. “Yeah. I feel like I owe you an apology.”
“For?”
“Letting my business get in the way of a police investigation today. With Jake and Rossi and...everything.”
Are you innocent? Did you kill Sven? Are you a murderer?
“It’s fine. Everything worked out fine.”
Liar.
I stared at his right hand holding the wine, trying to decide if it matched the blurry hand of the killer in the video. Maybe I stared a little too long.
He raised his hand, holding the wine out to me. “Uh...Delaney?”
Yep. Definitely a little too long. He moved to stand in front of me, close enough I could feel the heat from his body. I took the wine and set it on an end table.
Was it cold in my house or was I just a little too freaked out about my not-boyfriend being a maybe-murderer?
“Tell me you didn’t kill Sven.”
That startled both of us. He caught his breath, held it, his mossy eyes hurt at the accusation. Hurt and confused. “I already told you that last night.”
“I know. I need to hear it again.”
“I did not kill Sven Rossi.”
It sounded like the truth. It felt like the truth.
But then, wishful thinking had a way of feeling like the truth sometimes.
“Why do you think I would kill him?”
He was whispering. I was whispering too, like somehow, if we didn’t put our voices into the words, that would make this less real.
“Someone saw you. At the bar. With a group of men.”
I almost thought I could hear his heart stop beating.
“Who saw me?”