Page 29 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Chapter twenty-three

W hen Joe strides into the police station nearly an hour later, he’s the epitome of calm, collected, and professional.

He stops by the front desk to greet the receptionists and nod at a couple of officers strolling by before he makes his way over to me, the epitome of twitchy, barely controlled panic curled up in one of the lobby chairs.

It’s only once he draws closer that I see the cracks in his professional demeanor—his navy sweater is rumpled, his slacks are covered in Toby hair, and his jaw is wound more tightly than I’ve ever seen it.

“They really need to give you a vacation, Agnes,” he calls back to the receptionist one last time, and then he turns to me, his smile fading.

I open my mouth, but he shakes his head. “Not yet. We’ll talk in the counsel room.”

He leads me silently to a room that’s about the same size as the interrogation room—but marginally warmer with carpet, plush leather chairs, and a wooden table that isn’t bolted to the floor.

And—I notice quickly—no security cameras perched in the corners.

“They’re not allowed to record in here,” Joe explains when he catches me looking.

“These rooms are meant for private client-attorney meetings.” He sits down and pulls the worn leather messenger bag from his shoulder.

It’s the same one I’ve seen him bring to the apartment a hundred times—the one that makes LuAnne groan because it likely means he’s still got case prep to do.

And now I’m the case.

I expect Joe to start hammering me with questions the moment I sit down—but the only thing he does is pull out a wrapped sandwich and a bottle of water.

My eyes light up. “Are those for me?”

He nods. “I figured you probably hadn’t had much to eat or drink this morning.”

Try nothing.

I chug the bottle of water first, secure in the knowledge that Joe isn’t going to swab it for prints or DNA, before I tackle the sandwich.

“It’s nothing special,” Joe tells me. “I didn’t know your usual order, so I figured a ham and cheese roll would be a safe bet.”

“Trust me,” I say as I sink my teeth into the sandwich. “You could’ve brought me the expired, stale Dorito chips that live in the back of the pantry, and I’d still eat it.”

While I tear through the meal, Joe leafs through a thin manila file, not unlike the one the detectives had in the interrogation room.

Hopefully, that furrowed brow comes from concentration, not concern.

It’s only once I lean back, my ravenous hunger sated, that Joe tosses the file onto the table. “Well, there’s not much in the preliminary report,” he says. “But this looks like a typical Dalton and Bryant case procedural.”

I cross my arms. “You’ve dealt with these detectives before?”

“A few times,” he mutters, the sentiment punctuated with an eye-roll.

“I’m pretty sure the precinct likes to throw them on any death that’s even slightly unusual.

These guys are like dogs with a bone. Once they’ve got a theory they like, they’ll follow it until they find definitive proof otherwise. ”

I swallow. “And I’m their theory?”

He sighs. “I think they’ve got a theory about foul play, and right now, you’re the only suspect worth looking into.”

The word echoes through my head.

Suspect.

I’m an actual suspect in a murder investigation.

Some part of me finds twisted amusement in that, for all the terrible things I’ve done in my life, I’m being held accountable for the thing I didn’t do.

Joe must take my silence as anxiety because he’s quick to reassure me.

“Look, these guys are grasping at straws right now. There’s no concrete evidence to suggest that it even was foul play,” he explains.

“They’re making assumptions in hopes that one of them will pay off, but they’ve got no direct evidence linking you to this death beyond your presence at the scene.

” His brown eyes soften. “They might try to scare you, but they have nothing . You don’t need to worry. ”

I’d be a lot less worried if I were sunbathing in the south of France right now, and not shivering in a dimly lit police station.

I crack a feeble smile. “Well, I hope you don’t say that to all your clients.”

He scratches at the stubble spotting along his jaw. “Trust me. My caseload is too full to sugarcoat anyone. ”

My expression sobers. “I know. And you have no idea how grateful I am that you dropped everything to rush down here and take me on as a client, especially in these…circumstances.” I fidget with the edge of the paper wrapper.

“I am basically indebted to you for the rest of my life…assuming I don’t spend it in prison. ”

The dark joke only earns me a raised eyebrow in return.

“Well, we’re not out of the woods yet. Dalton and Bryant can’t detain you for more than twenty-four hours without charging you, which they’ll need more than circumstantial evidence to do,” he informs me.

“But if I had to take a guess, I’d say they’re going to try their hardest to expedite the coroner’s report and a toxicology screening in hopes they will find something concrete enough for an arrest.”

I rub my eyes, last night’s mascara still caked onto my lashes. “So, I should worry. At least until the coroner’s report comes back proving there was no foul play in Tom’s death.”

Both eyebrows shoot up this time. “Thomas Palmer…he’s the same Tom you were seeing?”

“Seeing is a strong word,” I correct. “We went on one date, and it didn’t really work out—but yes. Same Tom.”

I’m not entirely sure what to do with the pity that clouds Joe’s expression—like he’s waiting for the inevitable, teary breakdown.

But there isn’t one coming.

My body feels like a diesel engine that’s burned through its emotional supply. There’s no more panic, or sadness, or anger left to fuel me. I’m only sputtering down the road on their fumes.

Probably not a great time to admit you don’t feel any sadness over the man you’re suspected of killing though.

I avert my gaze. “Does, uh, LuAnne know? Everything that’s going on?”

Joe shakes his head. “Not everything. She knows there is a situation that requires my services, but that’s it.”

“And I’m sure that vague answer really satisfied her.”

His mouth twitches. “Not in the slightest…but you’ve got attorney-client privilege now. Legally, I can’t tell her a thing you don’t want me to.”

I shrug. “There’s nothing to tell, though. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t poison him. I didn’t force a bunch of drugs down his throat—or whatever else they’re accusing me of.”

It’s only now, as I’m saying it out loud, that another thought strikes.

What if someone else did?

I mean, the timing of Tom’s death after finding out Adrian has been keeping tabs on me for years? It’s…

Even exhausted, a fleeting sense of horror echoes through me.

No, it’s too ridiculous.

I might’ve slept through a heart attack or a stroke or even an accidental overdose…but a murder?

No way.

But I can’t deny the unfortunate pattern taking shape: here I am, for the second time in my life, in the midst of a possible murder investigation.

And what if Adrian Ellis is the common denominator?