mouse. The cat stared at her with unblinking eyes.
“God, Otis. You scared me to death.” Emilie turned on the standing lamp in the corner and headed for her master bath. Cold sweat broke out across her upper lip as darkness engulfed her. She slammed the light switch on.
Otis promptly jumped on the edge of the large garden tub, prancing across like a fat acrobat.
“Time to assess the damage.” She stared at the oval mirror in horror. Her already fair skin looked sickly, making the bruises stand out. A large, purple contusion covered her left cheek, and a smaller discoloration adorned her temple. She touched the spot with trembling fingers. The man had hit her with the gun. Another inch to the right and she could have ended up blind.
Her gaze traveled to her exposed left shoulder. It too was bruised, courtesy of the concrete floor. Two of her fingernails were broken, and her knee was skinned.
Otis hopped onto the porcelain sink and appraised her.
“You didn’t tell me I looked this bad.”
The cat blinked his large green eyes.
“Well, it could have been worse. At least I’m here to feed you, right?”
She left the light on and padded across her bedroom’s plush carpet. Emilie had gone to great lengths to make the space as relaxing as possible. The walls were a calming green, and underneath the bay window was a cozy chair covered in a rich, brown fabric. Next to it sat an accent table with a cherry veneer finish and a bottom shelf¬—perfect for a few books.
Emilie climbed into her queen-sized bed, her thoughts overwhelmed by her present trauma and miseries of the past. Even after all the efforts she’d made to put the past behind her, hearing Evan’s name was still like pouring acid on an open wound. She had wasted years of her life on that selfish, manipulative jackass. Catching him in their bed with a barely-legal brunette had been the clincher.
Emilie reached for the faded picture on her nightstand, cradling it to her chest. It was one of the few treasures she possessed from childhood. “I wish you were here, Mémé . You would make it all better.”
Chapter Eight
Emilie expected the squad room of Las Vegas Metro’s downtown command to be dank and grimy, full of grouchy cops talking to foul-mouthed criminals. Instead, the bland room was well organized and clean, with a wall of windows providing plenty of natural light. A hum of conversation hung in the air along with the sounds of hunt-and-peck typing, fax machines, and ringing phones.
A baby-faced officer led her to an office on the far side of the room. “Agent Ronson and Detective Avery are working in here.”
Emilie knew at once the space belonged to Avery. Several certificates and awards hung on the wall behind his desk, all arranged so that when Avery sat in his enormous leather chair, the accolades were just above his head.
Agent Ronson greeted her at the door. “How are you?”
“Okay,” Emilie lied. She took off her sunhat and sat down.
“Did you get any rest?” Dark circles rimmed Agent Ronson’s eyes. She clutched a cup of coffee.
“I think I got more than you did.”
“Well, some of us have a hard time leaving the job when a case is fresh.” She glanced at Avery reclining God-like in his ridiculous seat. “And some of us can sleep like babies no matter the circumstances.”
Avery tossed his styrofoam coffee cup into a steel wastebasket. Hadn’t he heard of recycling?
“Agent Ronson never stops. That’s why she’s got one of the best records in the Las Vegas field office.” He looked admirably at Ronson and adjusted his gaudy red tie. “I’m honored to work with her.”
Ronson ignored him. “Emilie, have you remembered anything else?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” Ronson said. “Working with the sketch artist may help you remember more.”
“I didn’t see the man’s face, just his eyes.”
“We need something to distribute among area commands on the off chance he’s committed
“God, Otis. You scared me to death.” Emilie turned on the standing lamp in the corner and headed for her master bath. Cold sweat broke out across her upper lip as darkness engulfed her. She slammed the light switch on.
Otis promptly jumped on the edge of the large garden tub, prancing across like a fat acrobat.
“Time to assess the damage.” She stared at the oval mirror in horror. Her already fair skin looked sickly, making the bruises stand out. A large, purple contusion covered her left cheek, and a smaller discoloration adorned her temple. She touched the spot with trembling fingers. The man had hit her with the gun. Another inch to the right and she could have ended up blind.
Her gaze traveled to her exposed left shoulder. It too was bruised, courtesy of the concrete floor. Two of her fingernails were broken, and her knee was skinned.
Otis hopped onto the porcelain sink and appraised her.
“You didn’t tell me I looked this bad.”
The cat blinked his large green eyes.
“Well, it could have been worse. At least I’m here to feed you, right?”
She left the light on and padded across her bedroom’s plush carpet. Emilie had gone to great lengths to make the space as relaxing as possible. The walls were a calming green, and underneath the bay window was a cozy chair covered in a rich, brown fabric. Next to it sat an accent table with a cherry veneer finish and a bottom shelf¬—perfect for a few books.
Emilie climbed into her queen-sized bed, her thoughts overwhelmed by her present trauma and miseries of the past. Even after all the efforts she’d made to put the past behind her, hearing Evan’s name was still like pouring acid on an open wound. She had wasted years of her life on that selfish, manipulative jackass. Catching him in their bed with a barely-legal brunette had been the clincher.
Emilie reached for the faded picture on her nightstand, cradling it to her chest. It was one of the few treasures she possessed from childhood. “I wish you were here, Mémé . You would make it all better.”
Chapter Eight
Emilie expected the squad room of Las Vegas Metro’s downtown command to be dank and grimy, full of grouchy cops talking to foul-mouthed criminals. Instead, the bland room was well organized and clean, with a wall of windows providing plenty of natural light. A hum of conversation hung in the air along with the sounds of hunt-and-peck typing, fax machines, and ringing phones.
A baby-faced officer led her to an office on the far side of the room. “Agent Ronson and Detective Avery are working in here.”
Emilie knew at once the space belonged to Avery. Several certificates and awards hung on the wall behind his desk, all arranged so that when Avery sat in his enormous leather chair, the accolades were just above his head.
Agent Ronson greeted her at the door. “How are you?”
“Okay,” Emilie lied. She took off her sunhat and sat down.
“Did you get any rest?” Dark circles rimmed Agent Ronson’s eyes. She clutched a cup of coffee.
“I think I got more than you did.”
“Well, some of us have a hard time leaving the job when a case is fresh.” She glanced at Avery reclining God-like in his ridiculous seat. “And some of us can sleep like babies no matter the circumstances.”
Avery tossed his styrofoam coffee cup into a steel wastebasket. Hadn’t he heard of recycling?
“Agent Ronson never stops. That’s why she’s got one of the best records in the Las Vegas field office.” He looked admirably at Ronson and adjusted his gaudy red tie. “I’m honored to work with her.”
Ronson ignored him. “Emilie, have you remembered anything else?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” Ronson said. “Working with the sketch artist may help you remember more.”
“I didn’t see the man’s face, just his eyes.”
“We need something to distribute among area commands on the off chance he’s committed
Similar Books
