Page 19 of Once Upon a Curse for True Love (Paranormal Romance #2)
Chapter Sixteen
Hot Cop Says What
ANDROMEDA
Andromeda shouldn’t swoon over a packet of Cheez-Its.
They were processed cheese dust pressed into squares, for hex’s sake, not a bouquet of flowers.
But as she tore into the crinkly red package Donatello had tossed onto her lap, a traitorous warmth unspooled in her chest. He’d remembered she was starving after their shift yesterday and brought her snacks.
It was the sweetest thing—especially coming from a man who didn’t appear to have a soft bone in his body.
She popped a square into her mouth. The salt hit her tongue first, then the sharp tang of fake cheese—comfort food at its most artificial and most effective.
“Mmm…” Andromeda couldn’t help her moan, nor she missed his satisfied smirk.
She munched another cheesy square, studying his profile while pretending to be interested in the scenery.
Today, he’d swapped the beanie for an SMPD baseball cap that he was wearing backward, hiding his lilac locks, but nothing could disguise the sharp angle of his jaw or the way his hands dwarfed the steering wheel.
Detective Trouble indeed. In a few days, he’d gone from “arrogant jerk who destroyed her door” to “surprisingly thoughtful guy with a killer smile who remembers she gets hungry.” And apparently, the way to a witch’s heart was definitely through snacks and improvised Chinese dinners.
And, mortifyingly, corny cheese puns that should have made her cringe and instead turned her ridiculously warm and hexing fuzzy.
“You’re quiet,” Donatello observed, glancing at her. “Plotting my demise or enjoying the culinary masterpiece?”
“Debating if your snack game redeems your personality.”
“And what’s the verdict?”
He sounded casual enough, but she suspected the question was everything but.
“I’m confused about how we went from handcuffs and forced court sentences to Chinese dinners and gas station snacks.”
“Handcuffs are still on the table, for the record.”
“Do you wish to be turned into a traffic cone, detective?”
“If it keeps me from saying anything stupid.”
“What stupid thing were you about to say?”
“That’s classified information, Swan.” He winked, and she hated how that simple gesture sent a bolt of heat straight through her.
“Is that an avoidance technique they teach at the police academy?”
“Yes. Right after Door Demolition 101.”
She snorted, tucking the now empty package into her bag. “So you are state-certified in emotional evasion and property damage. Impressive.”
By the time they parked, Andromeda had forgotten that she was in his car by court mandate and they were headed to question a murder suspect.
“We have him in Room Two,” one of Donatello’s deputies informed them as they approached a corridor she recognized all too well.
Tall and Teasing nodded and turned to face her. “I can’t bring you in while I question Ruescher—protocol—but you can follow everything from behind the mirror.”
Andromeda nodded, swallowing the sudden dryness in her throat. “I’m familiar with the setup.”
He led her to a door marked “Observation,” opening it to reveal a small, dimly lit room with chairs facing a large one-way mirror.
On the other side, a younger man was slumped in a metal chair, his red hair sticking up in anxious tufts where he’d been running his hands through it.
He looked pale, frightened, and too young to be mixed up in murder.
“That’s Patrick Ruescher?” She moved closer to the glass. “Arcanet’s mentee?”
“Yep.” Donatello stood close enough that their arms brushed. “Twenty-three years old. Been working with Arcanet for about eight months, according to our records.”
Andromeda studied the young man, noting his hunched shoulders and the way his fingers tapped nervously on the table. He looked like a frightened rabbit, not a calculating murderer capable of creating a lich.
“He doesn’t look murderous.”
“Appearances can deceive,” Donatello replied. “His fingerprints are on the murder weapon, and he purchased time-sand.”
Andromeda shivered, wary of being back in this part of the station.
She rubbed her arms, the memory of sitting in that same interrogation room flashing vividly in her mind.
The cold metal of the chair. The harsh fluorescent lights.
The weight of accusations being hurled at her by a detective whose eyes held too much intensity.
“I’m glad I can’t come.” Discomfort crawled up her spine. “Not eager to go back in there.”
Donatello’s gaze softened as he dropped his large hands on her shoulders.
“I’m sorry about how that went down. Playing bad cop isn’t my favorite part of the job.
” The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard.
It was the closest thing to an apology she’d gotten from him about that night, and strangely, it meant more than she’d expected.
But she wasn’t ready to admit all that. “Well, the whole intense detective thing worked for you.” Her tone turned sultry. “You sure I can’t talk you into playing bad cop with me again?” A few subtle double entendres she could handle. But she sucked at big emotional reveals.
He took a step forward, looking predatory. “Careful about the next words out of your mouth, Swan. This room is soundproof.”
“I promise I’ll be a good witch,” she said sweetly, tilting her head. “Or misbehave on purpose.”
In a blink, Donatello braced his hands on the wall next to her face, caging her against the mirror, his solid body pressed on hers.
He leaned in, speaking a hairbreadth from her ear. “Keep playing with fire, Swan, and you might get burned.”
She had no other reply than her labored breathing.
He pushed off the wall with the cockiest, most satisfied grin. “I should go. Watch carefully—see if you pick up on anything I miss.” He lifted her chin with one finger. “And hold that thought for later. I’ve got a few creative ways to handle repeat offenders.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice as her toes curled in her shoes. Donatello gave her one last smoldering look before exiting the observation room. The cold glass at her back not enough to soothe her sweltering body.
A minute later, he strode into the interrogation room, his expression transformed.
Gone was the man who’d flirted with her with heat in his eyes.
In his place stood Detective Malatesta, badge glinting on his belt, shoulders squared with authority, face set in hard lines meant to intimidate.
It should have been scary. Instead, Andromeda found herself inappropriately fascinated by the transformation, her body having very different reactions to his intimidation tactics than poor Patrick was.
The contrast between cop and suspect couldn’t have been more stark.
Donatello’s muscular build and commanding presence made Patrick look even more like a half-starved college student pulling an all-nighter.
The young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously as Donatello took the seat across from him, placing a manila folder on the table with calculated slowness.
“Patrick Ruescher,” Donatello began, his voice carrying through the speaker system into the observation room. “Do you know why you’re here?”
Patrick’s hands twisted together on the table. “You think I had something to do with Magnus’s death. But I didn’t, I swear.”
“Then why were your fingerprints the only ones, besides the victim’s, on the hard drive that killed him?”
“I—what?” Patrick’s eyes widened in genuine surprise—or an excellent facsimile of it. “That’s—we worked together. I—I touched all the equipment, didn’t curse anything.”
“And yet, science says otherwise.” Donatello leaned back, projecting indifference. “Let’s try another one. Care to explain why your name appears on record for a recent purchase of time-sand?”
“Time-sand?” Patrick shook his head vigorously. “No, never. I wouldn’t even know where to get it.”
“Magical Components Emporium on Fifth Street,” Donatello supplied. “You signed for it three weeks ago.”
“No!” Patrick’s voice rose, cracking. “I didn’t! I don’t know how my name got on those records, but it wasn’t me. I never bought time-sand!”
Donatello’s expression remained impassive as he opened the folder and slid a document across the table. “The clerk remembers you. Red hair, glasses, nervous demeanor. Sound familiar?”
“Lots of people have red hair,” Patrick protested weakly.
Andromeda followed the exchange with growing unease. Something wasn’t adding up. Patrick seemed genuinely shocked by the accusations, but the evidence was damning. She studied the young man’s body language as Donatello continued his methodical questioning.
“Did you have a problem with Magnus Thorn?” Donatello asked. “Did he mistreat you? Take credit for your work? Was he planning to replace you?”
“No! Magnus was brilliant! He was teaching me everything he knew. He was—” Patrick’s voice broke. “He believed in me when no one else did.”
“And yet you had access to his workspace. Knowledge of his systems. The perfect opportunity to plug in that hard drive when he wasn’t looking.”
Patrick’s face crumpled, tears welling in his eyes. “I would never hurt Magnus. Never. He wasn’t just my boss or mentor, he was—”
The young man stopped abruptly, hands covering his face as his shoulders shook with silent sobs. Donatello watched him impassively but gave the suspect a moment to compose himself before he continued.
“He was what, Patrick?” Donatello pressed, his voice surprisingly gentle.
Patrick shook his head, tears streaming down his face now. “It doesn’t matter. But I didn’t kill him. I couldn’t have.” He stuttered. “P—please, you have t—to believe me.”
“Why should I believe you when all the evidence points to the contrary?”
Patrick shook his head again, shoulders slumping in defeat as he retreated into himself, refusing to answer further questions. After a few more attempts, Donatello gathered his folder and stood.
“Consider cooperating, Patrick. It’ll go better for you if you do.” With that, Donatello exited the room, leaving the apprentice staring blankly at the table.
Andromeda was still processing what she’d witnessed when Donatello rejoined her in the observation room, his expression thoughtful.
“Well?” He joined her in staring through the glass. “What’s your read?”
“Something doesn’t add up. He seems genuinely devastated about Arcanet’s death.
And he doesn’t strike me as someone with the knowledge or temperament to create a lich.
That kind of magic requires… I don’t know, a certain darkness.
Ruthlessness. He looks like he cries when he accidentally steps on ants. ”
“Or he could be fooling us all,” Donatello reminded her. “Maybe this puppy-dog routine is just an act.”
“Maybe,” Andromeda conceded, unconvinced. “But why would he need spyware if he had access to Arcanet’s office and could verify in person if the hard drive was plugged in.”
“To activate the curse remotely when he wasn’t on the premises?”
“Could be. Any explanation why he’d deny purchasing time-sand so vehemently? He has to know you could easily verify it.”
“For some people, denial is a valid defense strategy.” Donatello shrugged. “Or he’s panicking.”
Before Andromeda could respond, a sharp knock rattled the door. A deputy entered, tablet in hand, nodding respectfully to Donatello.
“Detective, we pulled the security footage from Magical Components Emporium.” He handed over the tablet. “Time-stamped to the purchase of time-sand three weeks ago.”
“Let’s see what we’ve got,” Donatello muttered, tapping the screen to start the video.
The footage was grainy but clear enough: Patrick Ruescher, unmistakable with his shock of red hair and wire-rimmed glasses, standing at a counter, counting out money and signing a receipt. The timestamp matched the date on the purchase records.
Donatello turned the tablet toward Andromeda, his eyebrow raised in challenge. “Still convinced our guy is not a liar?”