Unraveling the Past. Beth Andrews

witness.

      Or a suspect.

      “Then why not mention it earlier?” he asked.

      She shrugged, trying to make the gesture casual but figured she looked like she was having a seizure. “I meant to…” Even someone who valued honestly above all else could be forgiven for a little white lie every so often. “But I didn’t see any point.”

      “Where is it?”

      “Where is…?”

      “Captain, what did you do with the evidence I gave you earlier this morning?”

      Offended, she narrowed her eyes. “What do you think I did with it?”

      But she knew. He wasn’t worried she’d accidentally lost or misplaced it. Oh, no, he thought she’d hid it. Or destroyed it.

      “Where is the necklace?” he repeated sharply.

      “Processing has it.”

      As soon as she’d handed it over the guilt weighing on her shoulders had lightened. Yes, it had taken her a few hours to make the right decision but when push came to shove, she’d done the right thing.

      He circled his desk. Picking up his phone, he glanced at her. “Sit down.”

      Her mouth went dry. If she had to endure his calm, controlled reprimand accompanied by one of his subzero looks, she’d do it how she did everything in her life. On her own two feet. “I’d rather stand, thanks.”

      Except he didn’t go with the iceman routine. Instead his hot stare just about blistered her skin.

      She sat. And disliked him even more for being unpredictable.

      He dialed a number. “Officer Campbell,” he said into the phone, but kept his eyes on her, “I need you to go down to Processing and check on the status of the evidence found at the quarry.”

      Her face burned. Anger and resentment sizzled in her blood. He had no right to treat her this way, as if she couldn’t be trusted. She’d made a mistake. A mistake she planned on correcting at the earliest convenience.

      And here she’d thought that, after being chastised for fighting with Tori, she couldn’t possibly be more humiliated.

      Man, she hated being wrong.

      Hated even more that, like what happened with her sister, this was her own damn fault. She’d dug herself a deep, smelly hole and now she had to figure out how to claw her way out.

      Tapping her fingers against her knee, she checked out the office. The furniture—two wooden chairs facing a metal desk, a banged-up, four-drawer filing cabinet and a bookcase—were left from Chief Gorham. The freshly painted beige walls were bare. A lamp, two neatly stacked piles of folders, a mechanical pencil and a coffee cup the only items on his desk. There were no framed commendations or knickknacks. No nameplate. No personal photos, not even a snapshot of the niece who was living with him—and what was up with that?

      The room was like Taylor himself. Unreadable. There was nothing to give a person any type of clue as to what—if anything—went on beneath the chief’s starched surface.

      Being a good cop means being able to keep your personal life and professional one separate.

      Maybe he was a damned good cop. But he obviously had a few things to learn about being an actual human being.

      “You’re sure?” Taylor asked Evan. “You saw the necklace? Not just that it had been entered into the evidence logbook?” Pause. “Good.”