surprised the murderer in Senator Sills’s suite.
She considered banging on the mirror and asking for a quiet place to lie down and take a nap. Or maybe she could sleep in here. She scanned the walls for a light switch, but didn’t see even one. Did that mean the lights were controlled from outside the room? She’d watched the television versions of police tormenting suspects to obtain information, even confessions. Were some of those stories true?
She was beginning to see why suspects confessed, even if they were innocent, at least on TV shows. She was about ready to declare that she had shot the senator because he made one too many changes to his speech, if it meant they’d let her go home and take a shower. She was exhausted, and her head was pounding. She wanted privacy. Craved it. She wanted to be at home, in bed with the covers pulled over her head. And she wanted to stay there until this nightmare was over.
But she’d never been able to just stick her head in the sand—not even as a little girl. She’d been born with the talent—or curse—of an almost uncanny intuition. Her mother had died when she was eleven, but she’d known, years before, that her mother was sick. She’d also figured out that her mother’s illness was not the kind that was talked about in public. Then, later, she’d realized that her dad’s late nights and mysterious meetings with people like Senator Sills were also best kept as secrets. Even though she didn’t know exactly what went on, she always knew that there was something wrong about them.
Her first thought after she’d recovered from the shock of seeing the senator dead was that her life, from that moment on, would never be the same. Her brain had gone into fast-forward, detailing the consequences of any action on her part a week, a month, a year in the future, like a desert highway that stretched on to the horizon and beyond.
She would be tied up with inquiries, hearings, trials for who knew how long. Her career was toast, and privacy was something she might never have again. She was smack in the middle of the biggest murder case to hit New Orleans since Con Delancey’s personal assistant had killed him twenty-five years ago.
Then a more immediate concern hit her. The killer had seen her. Did he realize she couldn’t identify him? Did he care? The idea that the person who had killed Senator Sills in cold blood was out there, maybe waiting for a chance to kill her was terrifying. For an adrenaline-soaked second, her limbs tightened in an almost uncontrollable urge to run.
But where? She was in the police station, probably the safest place in the area, at least for now.
Once she’d calmed down and settled into the hard-backed chair again, she thought about the senator and reflected on how selfish she was being. Quelling the urge to touch the bandage above her temple, she reminded herself harshly that she was alive. The senator was dead. Her dad was dead. But each of them in their way had left her a legacy—a heavy, burdensome legacy that she would have to unload before she could ever be free of the past.
Exerting an almost superhuman effort to keep her face expressionless in case there were people on the other side of the mirror watching her, Laney pulled the legal pad the detective had left on the desk toward her and began to write down her duties as personal assistant to Senator Darby Sills.
By the time she finished documenting everything the senator had done since he’d arrived at the hotel the afternoon before, Detective Delancey was back.
As he closed the door, she asked, “How much longer are you going to keep me here?”
“Why? Have you got some place you need to be?” Ethan snapped, frowning.
She lifted her chin at his tone. “Actually I do. I’m going to be receiving a lot of phone calls—condolences, questions, comments. I’d like to have my phone so I can check my messages periodically, if you don’t mind.”
He nodded toward the legal pad.
She considered banging on the mirror and asking for a quiet place to lie down and take a nap. Or maybe she could sleep in here. She scanned the walls for a light switch, but didn’t see even one. Did that mean the lights were controlled from outside the room? She’d watched the television versions of police tormenting suspects to obtain information, even confessions. Were some of those stories true?
She was beginning to see why suspects confessed, even if they were innocent, at least on TV shows. She was about ready to declare that she had shot the senator because he made one too many changes to his speech, if it meant they’d let her go home and take a shower. She was exhausted, and her head was pounding. She wanted privacy. Craved it. She wanted to be at home, in bed with the covers pulled over her head. And she wanted to stay there until this nightmare was over.
But she’d never been able to just stick her head in the sand—not even as a little girl. She’d been born with the talent—or curse—of an almost uncanny intuition. Her mother had died when she was eleven, but she’d known, years before, that her mother was sick. She’d also figured out that her mother’s illness was not the kind that was talked about in public. Then, later, she’d realized that her dad’s late nights and mysterious meetings with people like Senator Sills were also best kept as secrets. Even though she didn’t know exactly what went on, she always knew that there was something wrong about them.
Her first thought after she’d recovered from the shock of seeing the senator dead was that her life, from that moment on, would never be the same. Her brain had gone into fast-forward, detailing the consequences of any action on her part a week, a month, a year in the future, like a desert highway that stretched on to the horizon and beyond.
She would be tied up with inquiries, hearings, trials for who knew how long. Her career was toast, and privacy was something she might never have again. She was smack in the middle of the biggest murder case to hit New Orleans since Con Delancey’s personal assistant had killed him twenty-five years ago.
Then a more immediate concern hit her. The killer had seen her. Did he realize she couldn’t identify him? Did he care? The idea that the person who had killed Senator Sills in cold blood was out there, maybe waiting for a chance to kill her was terrifying. For an adrenaline-soaked second, her limbs tightened in an almost uncontrollable urge to run.
But where? She was in the police station, probably the safest place in the area, at least for now.
Once she’d calmed down and settled into the hard-backed chair again, she thought about the senator and reflected on how selfish she was being. Quelling the urge to touch the bandage above her temple, she reminded herself harshly that she was alive. The senator was dead. Her dad was dead. But each of them in their way had left her a legacy—a heavy, burdensome legacy that she would have to unload before she could ever be free of the past.
Exerting an almost superhuman effort to keep her face expressionless in case there were people on the other side of the mirror watching her, Laney pulled the legal pad the detective had left on the desk toward her and began to write down her duties as personal assistant to Senator Darby Sills.
By the time she finished documenting everything the senator had done since he’d arrived at the hotel the afternoon before, Detective Delancey was back.
As he closed the door, she asked, “How much longer are you going to keep me here?”
“Why? Have you got some place you need to be?” Ethan snapped, frowning.
She lifted her chin at his tone. “Actually I do. I’m going to be receiving a lot of phone calls—condolences, questions, comments. I’d like to have my phone so I can check my messages periodically, if you don’t mind.”
He nodded toward the legal pad.
Similar Books
