Page 29 of Nightshades

“I don’t want you to get in trouble either,” I point out.

“I’m the one who makes the decisions at my department, Detective. No one else. Don’t worry about me.”

Jake opens the door to see two people standing there in black jackets. A mist of rain collecting on their windbreakers and dribbling down their sleeves. The woman to the right has big, round glasses that are slightly fogged from the weather, and the man beside her is tall and slender, with a balding head.

Both are carrying a kit of some kind.

“Savannah. Bill,” Jake greets. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, we heard you were at the suspect’s house, and we need to collect evidence from everywhere. The crime scene itself has been taken care of already, but—” she peeks around Jake to stare at me. “But she might have evidence on her too.”

Oh, no.

“Shouldn’t this be done at the hospital, then? You aren’t going to bombard her in her home.”

“I don’t mind giving them whatever they need. I’d rather have the privacy, Sheriff. If that’s okay?” I ask him, clutching the opening of my robe to hide the dried black liquid that’s on my chest.

Whatever they do, they can’t find that. They will have questions, and I truly don’t have the answers.

“I don’t think I have anything helpful for you, but I’ll try.”

“Come on in, then. Make it quick. We’ve taken enough of the Detective’s time.”

“It’s fine, Sheriff. I really don’t mind. I want to know what happened just as much as you do.”

Granted, from the small glimpses entering my mind, I have a twisted feeling that I already know what happened—a twisted nightmare can’t be proven.

“¿Estás bien?” Zig sits down in the chair next to me, picking up his coffee mug again. He sits back, lifting his brows in concern.

Blowing a breath, I lift a shoulder, tapping my fingernails on the table. “I don’t know if I’m okay,” I admit, exhaustion hitting me. “I’m telling the truth, Zig. I really don’t know what happened last night, but I didn’t kill that man. I would never do that. Not unless I was protecting myself.”

“Maybe he was the guy in the middle of the road? Maybe he attacked you, and you don’t remember. Trauma does that to the brain,” he states, bringing up an excellent point.

“Maybe, but I saw a lot of horrible things when I worked in the city. This doesn’t even make the top ten. It doesn’t make sense for me to forget.”

Zig places his hand on top of mine, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Another gut-wrenching urge has me tugging my hand away from his touch, even though I know he means no harm.

Every touch feels wrong when it doesn’t belong to the monster I dreamed of.

The forensic team follows behind Jake, and Waylon trails in behind them, his eyes cold and narrow as if he doesn’t trust them.

“Detective, do you have the clothes you were wearing last night by any chance? We’d like to collect them for evidence,” Savannah states, placing her kit on the dining room table.

“Um. I think so? I don’t remember how I got undressed, so let me go check.” Standing, I rush to my room with every single person following me.

My right to privacy is out the window, I guess.

The clothes are on the floor next to the bed, completely shredded into useless scraps of material. Confused, I bend down to pick them up. There’s a slight tremble in my hand when I give them to Savannah.

“They are torn to pieces. Do you have any marks on your body? Any wounds?” She lifts what was once my shirt into theair. and I’m able to see her face through the long gashes in the material.

I loved that shirt.

Damn it.

“No, nothing like that. I’m fine. Physically. There isn’t a mark on me. Can we make this quick?”

Savannah places my clothes into an evidence bag, sealing it shut, and begins to examine my room. Before she can take another step, my hand is on her chest, stopping her.