Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 131387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
But even if the store wasn’t making a killing, it was making it.
Due to the bustle of Main Street, I had to park two storefronts down from the sheriff’s department in one of the angled spots right on the road.
I did this.
And then I tramped back to the station, opened the door and all but flung myself through it.
Mm-hmm.
You could take this as I was still angry.
Very.
Unsurprisingly, the reception area was a throwback in time. Gleaming wooden counter facing the door, old wooden benches on the edges to sit in should you have to wait for…whatever you’d have to wait for at a police station.
Beyond that counter, however, I was hurtled back into the twenty-first century.
Desk cubbies with low walls so the personnel could see and talk to each other. Nice computers. Two glass-walled conference rooms at the back.
A Latino man was standing at the counter. His name plate said Hernandez.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
I walked up to him. “I’d like to report a trespassing. And a threat. A threatening trespassing,” I announced.
I then opened my bag, pulled out the letter and handed it to him.
“That was on my welcome mat this morning,” I went on. “And yes, before you ask, I had company last night. He spent the night, left this morning, and he was not my husband under God’s eyes or anybody’s.”
In fact, I don’t even know the man’s name, I did not add. Though I knew he was polite…as such.
Deputy Hernandez listened to this with a blank cop face before he opened the letter, read it, and I was gratified to see how his eyes narrowed on the words.
He looked again at me. “Can I ask where you live, ma’am?”
“Four four five oh, County Road 10,” I told him.
At hearing my address, there was a flicker in his eyes I didn’t like.
This department had law enforcement responsibilities throughout the whole county. My miniscule three-acre property was one of possibly thousands they had jurisdiction over. How that flicker happened after me throwing a random address at him did not give me good vibes.
“Neither Lieutenant Lazurus nor Detective Wilkins are here right now,” he said. “But can you come around so I can take your statement?”
He moved down to the end of the counter, with me moving with him, so he could open the swinging door for me.
“I don’t really have a statement,” I said as I walked through. “The totality of my statement is what I already told you.”
He led me to a desk and gestured to the guest chair.
I sat.
He sat at the desk.
He then said, “Just a few questions so we can get our bearings.”
Our bearings were: someone was watching me. There wasn’t a house or building anywhere near me, but they were watching closely enough they knew I’d entertained my Post-it Lover last night, they had some ideas about that, and they didn’t delay in sharing them.
Before I could point that out to Deputy Hernandez, he asked, “How long have you been at that address?”
“As long as I’ve been in Misted Pines. Seven months. No, wait…seven and a half months.”
“Right,” he muttered, writing that down on a legal pad on his desk.
“Just to get through this, I own The Groove. The new store on Main Street,” I shared.
He nodded. Still scribbling.
I kept talking.
“I don’t really work there. I have a manager, Abigail Buckner, who sees to the store. I also have two part-time sales associates, Clarissa and Julie, who work weekends. Usually, I’m all over the county, sourcing stock, or up in my workshop, refurbishing that stock.”
He kept nodding and scribbling.
“So I’m up there a lot,” I continued. “Alone,” I stressed.
A beep sounded from the direction of reception. His head came up. Mine turned.
And for heaven’s sake.
Two tall, built, criminally handsome men walked through the doors.
I knew them both from my research into Misted Pines.
The one who had shades of Henry Cavill, but older, and more good-looking, was Zachariah Lazarus, the ex-FBI agent who moved to Misted Pines after he caught not only the serial killer known as the Crystal Killer, but also the copycat killers who had unintentionally lured him here.
The other one, who had glorious shades of no one but himself, was Sheriff Harry Moran, the squeaky-clean good cop that came after the, at best, lazy and negligent, at worse, corrupt sheriff who came before him, Leland Dern.
“One second,” Deputy Hernandez said before he got up, taking my note with him, and he met the two at the swinging door.
A quiet conversation was had. I couldn’t hear a word of it. But several times during it, both Moran and Lazarus turned their handsome heads to look at me.
In the midst of this, a very petite woman (she couldn’t reach even five foot tall) who gave shades of Aunt Bea, complete with string of pearls and lace collar on her floral printed dress (see what I mean about this place?), joined them. As she listened to them talk, even she glanced at me with no small amount of alarm in her eyes.