Page 4 of Ever After
My phone rings, and the number is blocked. I send it to voicemail. If they want to talk to me so bad, they can leave a message and I’ll call them later. A new call comes in—blocked number again. I wonder how many times they’re going to call before deciding to leave a voicemail?
The answer?Five.But that’s only because I grow annoyed enough to answer.
“Who is this?”
“Watch your back. Nick may be gone, but I’m not.” The voice is deep, synthesized, and slightly distorted.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and a chill ripples through my body despite the tub of hot water I’m sitting in. “What? Who is this?” The line goes dead and I place my hand over my racing heart, trying to slow the damn thing.
What does that mean, watch my back? I stand on shaky legs and dry off. I find some comfortable clothes to change into and pour a glass of wine. The call has me on edge, and I need something comforting to try and relax. My phone rings with a new text message, and I freeze mid-sip, watching it like it’s going to attack. I take a deep breath and glance at the lit screen. Grayson’s name pops up, and I exhale, relief washing over me.
Grayson:I’d like to see you tomorrow to discuss the break-in. Can you come down to the precinct at 9?
I reply, letting him know I’ll be there, then crawl into bed, pulling my computer onto my lap. I search through all my sessions dating back to last year with Mr. Genova. I vaguely remember a few sessions that seemed odd, but I chalked it up to the stress of his job. Being the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar corporation can’t be all smiles and games. I stop scrolling when I notice a pattern forming.
On several occasions, he talked about a new investor who was giving him problems. I never delved into this as it was business related. He mentioned it in a few weeks’ worth of sessions that product wasn’t moving the way it should, and there was one person to blame. He kept talking about the high demand, despite supplies being more difficult to obtain.
Why would he bring that up in a session?
I scroll through more notes. Nothing else pops. He talks about stresses with his wife and family, and I’ve included my notes about different techniques to ease some of the stress of his job and some advice on how to balance work and home life. I want to go further back through my notes, see whatever I can dig up, but my eyes are heavy and starting to droop. I close the computer, turn off the bedside light, and curl up under the covers.
Grayson
Nine o’clock and I’m getting anxious as I wait for her to show up. Amelia thought it would be best to get a written statement from her, and I thought it would be best if I can appeal to her better nature. She walks through the door, and I’m sure most of the male team stop their conversations to openly gawk at her. She stops at the reception desk, and the girl behind the desk points in my direction.
She’s in those damn high heels again, but this time she has on a pair of light gray dress pants and a deep purple blouse, her jacket draped over her arm. Her hair is swept back from her face and pulled into a side chignon, a few tendrils loose around her face. Her gray eyes are on display under thick black lashes. She walks toward me, and my breath catches.
Damn, she looks good.I start to picture what it would be like to have her underneath me again, and I feel myself strain against my zipper.
“Good morning, Detective.” Her voice is like silk and does nothing to stop the dirty thoughts running rampant through my mind.
“Good morning, Doctor Grier. You look lovely this morning.” I smile as a bit of color rises to her cheeks.
“Is that really appropriate?”
As I’m about to answer, Amelia clears her throat, and the two of us look in her direction. “Thank you for coming in this morning, Doctor Grier—”
“You can call me Finley,” she interjects and glances my way, a slight smile playing on her lips.
Ouch.
Amelia nods and continues. “If you’ll follow me, we have a few questions for you.”
She leads the two of us into one of the interview rooms. Finley takes the single seat on the side of the table. Amelia offers her a drink, and when she requests some water, Amelia steps out, leaving us alone in the room. I don’t miss the warning look she gives me, though, and I know better than to cross her.
“So, I heard you enlisted in the Marines out of high school. I figured you would have moved away from here. What made you join the police force?” She tries for easy conversation, and I can’t help but smirk at her topic choice. Does she really want to talk about my time in the military?
“I did, and I was a Marine for six years. I was one of the best interrogators in my unit. It made sense when I returned, to go back into something I’m good at.”
“Why’d you return to Chicago?”
I shrug. “Family’s here. Might as well stay close.”
I follow her gaze as she glances down at my left hand. I splay my fingers on the table, and her cheeks redden. She looks back up into my eyes and tilts a corner of her mouth up in a half-smile. I’ve seen this expression cross her features a few times, but this is the first time I’ve seen it without a hint of dislike.
Amelia returns with the water, and we begin our questioning. Finley isn’t able to answer much. The only thing she’s able to tell us is the alarm company didn’t notify her of the break-in, and she’s positive she set it.
After another round of questions—most of which she won’t answer without a warrant—I escort her out of the room. I’m itching to touch her, feel her heat seep into my fingers, but now isn’t the time.