A Deep and Dark December (5 page)

“F-f-fuck off.”

“Original and clever, too. You should be feeling the heat now.”

Her furious gaze met his in the rearview mirror. “Like you c-c-care.”

He stretched his arm across the passenger seat so he could look backwards as he reversed the car. “Actually I do. Some evidence can be destroyed or damaged if it’s subjected to frigid temperatures.”

She made a frustrated noise and kicked the divider that separated the rows of seats.

He stifled a laugh. “Watch it. I wouldn’t want to have to arrest you for destroying city property.”

Her flushed cheeks puffed in and out and she shot him the bird with both hands. He shifted his gaze from the rearview mirror to the road, pretending he hadn’t seen her gesture, and resisted the urge to make a crack about how he’d like to take her up on her offer. He drove past the crowd of gawkers as quickly as possible, wanting to shield Erin as much as possible. It was probably a wasted effort. The first arrivals would have filled in the newcomers and so on in a twisted game of small town Telephone.

“Give me your aunt’s number and I’ll call her so she can meet us at the station with a change of clothes for you.”

“She already knows-s-s.”

“You didn’t call her, did you? I should have confiscated your cell phone. I didn’t want you talking to anyone before giving your statement.”

“I don’t have to call her for her to know.”

Graham shifted in his seat and adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. He’d never believed the rumors about Cerie December being some kind of clairvoyant. Talk like that in a small town was usually that—just talk. People said all kinds of shit to further their own agendas or to be plain old mean. He should know. The town’s opinion of him wasn’t anywhere near accurate. He wasn’t now nor would he ever be the golden boy returned.

“Give me her number.” He punched it in his cell phone as she rattled it off.

“Hello, Sheriff.” Erin’s Aunt Cerie answered before the first ring. “How’s your father?”

“Well, thank you. I’m calling because Erin needs you to—”

“Bring her a change of clothes. Yes, I know. I’m at the station. Waiting.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Tell her that I’ve brought her a Thermos of tea as well. She’s so cold
I’m
shivering.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And Graham?”

“Yes?”

“
I
have faith in you.” Cerie hung up before Graham could respond.
What the hell did that mean?

“Told you,” Erin said, her voice stronger.

Graham thumbed the End button on his phone, unsettled by his conversation with Cerie. Not because of the supposed psychic thing… oh, hell, who was he kidding? The woman was sweet, but that conversation creeped the shit out of him.

It was the
way
she’d said her parting remark that threw him.
She
had faith in him. Did that mean others didn’t? Had she picked up on something he hadn’t? He couldn’t ask her without giving away his own doubts. Had he missed something at the scene? Should he have stayed until the investigators arrived?

No. He refused to believe that. It was being back in this damned town. He’d never second-guessed himself in L.A. Well, almost never. He’d never let a crazy supposed psychic like Cerie December get to him, that’s for sure. He’d run cases on his own before. Had closed a good portion of them, a better than average portion of them.

He knew what he was doing, damn it.

“Mabel would have told her what happened,” Erin said, breaking into his thoughts. “That I was involved. Plus Aunt Cerie took my car this morning because hers is on the fritz so she knew I would’ve walked to Greg’s house from the office. And then the rain came faster and harder than the weather announcer had said it would. Hence the dry clothes.”

“Are you telling me your aunt’s not really psychic? If that’s the case, she shouldn’t be taking money from people for her ‘readings.’ That’s fraud.”

“She’s smart
and
psychic. Not to mention best friends with your dispatcher who uses her head set as a megaphone.”

“Can’t defend that.”

“You can turn the heat down. I’m warmer now and you’re probably burning up.”

He was sweating his balls off. “I’m okay.”

The uncomfortable silence grew into a solid mass between them. If they weren’t exchanging barbs, he hardly knew how to talk to her. He stole looks at her in the rear view mirror, flicking his gaze over the parts of her he could see. He didn’t want to get caught staring.

She faced away, her attention on the scenery out the window. Her hair was beginning to dry and curled in clumps around her face. She must have been standing fairly close to Greg when he’d shot himself. Bits of gore had gotten caught in her hair. He frowned over that.

Still, she was beautiful. There was a fragility to her that belied her fiery personality. She looked made of china, the kind his Grandma Byrne only put out on special occasions because it was fine and old, having passed through several generations. And like the danger of handling his grandma’s china, he had to suppress the urge to touch her, run the tips of his fingers along her jaw, her collarbone to make sure she was real. Something as delicate as she belonged to the faery stories Grandma Byrne had told him as a boy.

They pulled up to the police station, which was a Victorian house that had been converted sometime in the seventies. They’d ripped all the gingerbread off the façade, leaving it with awkwardly angled roofs and a tower that looked more like a missile silo than a graceful turret.

Graham grabbed the umbrella from his trunk and came around to let Erin out. He held the umbrella over her head as they climbed the steps.

At the top she turned to him, holding her arms out. “Will I be able to shower before I change into clean clothes?”

“There’s a shower in the bathroom at the back.”

“Thank God.”

Graham opened the door for her and followed her inside. They hit the wall of women two steps in.

“Is it really mur—”

“What hap—”

“I was so wor—”

Jessica, Mabel and Cerie got a look at Erin and froze, eyes wide, mouths gaping.

“Let me get Erin back to the bathroom so she can shower and change.” Graham held his hand out. “Cerie, her clothes?”

“What? Oh.” Cerie handed him a bag. “Erin, dear, are you all right? Please tell me none of that blood is yours.”

“I’m fine. None of it’s mine.”

Jessica wrinkled her nose like she smelled something bad.

“You poor thing,” Mabel chimed in. “You look like a drowned gutter rat.”

“Why don’t I help you change?” Cerie said, reaching for Erin’s arm.

“No. No one touch her.” He gestured for Erin to precede him.

The women jumped back, their eyes wider than before. Erin walked ahead of him down the hall to his office. Once inside, he closed the door after them.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said, noticing how pale she was.

She shrugged. “It’s all right.”

“I need to take a couple of pictures of you. You know, to document the evidence.” He was sweating from more than the hot car ride. Why was he suddenly so nervous?

“Where should I stand?”

“Right there’s fine.” He went to his desk and pulled out a camera.

“Is it okay if I don’t smile?”

He looked up from the viewfinder at her remark. “You don’t have to.” He snapped a couple of pictures, then set the camera aside to rummage around in his desk drawer. “Are you right or left handed?”

“Right. Why?”

“Hold out your hands palms down. I need to test for gunshot residue although it’s likely the rain washed it away.”

“What?”

“
If
there is any, I mean. I know there won’t be. It’s just procedure. Sorry.”

She pressed her lips together, making a muscle at her jaw twitch as she stuck her hands out for his inspection. He pretended not to notice them shaking as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves and slowly approached her. He swabbed both sides of her right, then the left hand, paying particular attention to the web area between her thumbs and index fingers.

“All done,” he said. “I’ll get the evidence bags now.”

“Evidence bags?”

“For your clothes and what I’m going to pull from your hair.” When her hand automatically went to her hair he stopped her. “Don’t. Cross contamination.”

“Oh, right.” She stood still, her hands out to her sides.

He changed gloves and moved toward her again with caution. She looked as though she’d shatter under the slightest touch. He wanted to tell her it would be okay and somehow soften the things she’d witnessed. He couldn’t say that he knew her or how she’d react if he tried. Mostly he knew things about her, which was worse than not knowing anything at all because he had no way to sort the truth from the fiction. He cursed small town life and the traps it laid.

Pulling bits of matter from her hair with tweezers, he was careful not to accidentally catch a strand or let her see what he put in the collection bag. There was something strangely intimate between them in that moment. He hoped he wasn’t imagining it at the same time he mentally kicked himself for thinking it. He’d never been this close to her before, had never inhaled her scent or touched her in anyway. Now here they were, sharing personal space and trying not to make eye contact.

When he finished he took a step back, exhaling the breath he’d been holding. “Done.” He pointed to a door across the room. “That’s the bathroom. There should be a towel and washcloth in the cabinet under the sink.”

“Thanks.”

“Leave the door ajar.”

She paused and turned to look at him, a questioning frown buckling her brows.

“Chain of evidence,” he replied, holding out a pair of gloves for her. “Put these on before you ah… undress.”

Taking the gloves, she nodded and continued on her way. She left the door partially open, as he’d asked. This was the first time he’d spent any time with her. All the years he’d known her—or more accurately, known
of
her—there had always been people around. They’d never been in a room together—alone. He’d never truly noticed her. He was noticing her now and that new awareness did strange things to his ability to keep things strictly business.

He changed gloves, grabbed a few more evidence bags and approached the door. “Hand me your coat first.”

“Am I going to get any of these clothes back?”

“Do you want them back?”

She opened the door and handed him her coat and shoes. “No, I suppose not.”

He took them from her one at a time and bagged them. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look a little pale.”

“I j-just saw myself in the mirror.”

“Damn. I’m sorry. I should’ve covered it or something.”

She pulled the door so she was hidden again. “Too late.”

He heard the movement of fabric and then she poked her hand out of the gap in the doorway, offering her blouse. He put it in a bag, trying not to imagine what color her bra would be. Then her bra was thrust through the opening. Purple. And warm from her body. Did her panties match?

Next came her skirt and he found himself getting twitchy, his clothes chafing. Her hand appeared with a wadded up ball of fabric. He couldn’t bring himself to take them from her and nudged her arm with the opening of the bag. She dropped them inside. Light blue cotton. He was so fixated, trying to imagine them on her that it took him a moment to realize she was standing on the other side of the door completely naked.

Graham sat at his desk, trying to suppress the images his brain kept tossing up of Erin in the shower. He updated his notes from the crime scene.
Erin’s head tipped back, her fingers sliding through her hair, water skimming her bare skin.
He checked in with Pax.
Erin bent over, her soapy hands gliding down her legs.
He flipped the radio on to drown out the sound of the shower.
Erin soaping her breasts, her hand slipping lower
—