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I nodded, slipping out of his hold and dropping into the chair I’d been sitting in earlier. “I’m okay.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure.”

“Are you dizzy? Put your head between your knees.” He had already turned away and was yanking Malcolm’s arms back to cuff him.

Malcolm appeared to be out cold. At least, I hoped he was out cold.

I said, “I hope I didn’t kill him because I’m not going back to jail.”

“You’re not going to jail. And you didn’t kill him.”

He rose, spared me another quick look. We stared at each other. Then Raleigh reached in his pocket, pulled out his cell, and phoned for backup.

Epilogue

I know. Not very romantic.

Cops and crime scenes. They’re not very romantic.

After Raleigh called for backup, he took my statement. He was kind but businesslike. Not exactly impersonal, but not what I needed right then. But then, it was becoming clear to me that Raleigh was not going to be able to give me what I needed. No longer seemed to have any interest in trying.

More cops arrived.

Eventually, Malcolm, still unconscious, was carted off to the hospital. Raleigh vanished shortly after, without a word. Without so much as a glance my way.

I mean, honestly, what was one more hurt on top of all the others?

The rest of the night was spent answering questions, more questions, and still more questions from law enforcement. I will say, I received the kid glove treatment, whether because I was so obviously the victim this time, or because of Matilda Seger’s article. I was offered medical attention, which I didn’t need, someone brought me a coffee—which was helpful after those extra lemon drops, but had the unfortunate result of making me sick—whereupon I was once again offered medical treatment. Which I once again declined.

What I Did on My Christmas Vacation.

The sun was coming up by the time the last cop car pulled out of my driveway.

I slept for eight hours and woke to a phone call from Police Chief Jackson, who informed me that Malcolm had regained consciousness and that I was going to receive a search warrant later in the day for the Big House. He was sorry for the inconvenience. I assured him it was no inconvenience. He formally apologized on behalf of Little Copenhagen Police Department for the wrongs that I had suffered.

“Did Raleigh resign?” I asked.

I’d known the chief for years, had several “family” dinners under his roof when Raleigh and I were seeing each other. I could hear him bristling when he replied, “He offered his resignation. I’ve refused to accept it. Rally’s a good cop and a good detective. He doesn’t deserve to be made the scapegoat. The decision to take the case to the DA was mine.”

“I told Raleigh last night I didn’t want him to resign.”

“Then I don’t know why the hell you two can’t work this out.”

That surprised me so much, I didn’t have an answer. In any case, the chief was done talking to me.

Matilda Seger phoned almost the minute I hung up, asking for another interview. I said I wasn’t giving interviews for the time being.

“Weren’t you happy with your interview?” she asked.

“I kind of wish I’d kept my mouth shut,” I said truthfully. My gaze fell on the remnants of the pecan custard coffee cake in the glass cake dome. I had to believe that cake was a sincerely kind gesture on Malcolm’s part. That he had felt affection for me. That Astrid had been his world. Unfortunately, for the Malcolms of the world, their own survival—hell, just their own welfare or maybe even pleasure—was always going to come before anyone else. I’d met a lot of people in jail who shared that trait.

“Did I misquote you or misrepresent anything you said?” Matilda asked.

“No. But a lot of what I said was spoken in anger, when I still felt like someone needed to pay for what I went through. Is there a way I can go on the record to reassure people I’m not planning to close or even sell Bredahl?”

She said quickly, “Yes! That would begreatnews. We can edit the online edition with that update today.”