Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 139147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
This was part of the reason why I was at the police station.
The other part was that I didn’t have much choice (say, any). The police needed my statement, and as iffy as that statement was going to be, considering the kidnapped child was clutching me in a death grip and she lost it anytime anyone tried to pull her from me, I had to go.
The thing was, her parents were frenzied, and she was freaked way the eff out. And, for obvious reasons, the moment they made it to us, they tried to tear her from my arms.
She just wouldn’t let me go.
So, with several cops, Chris Evans and his hottie partner looking on, I took a step away from them, saying gently, “I’m sorry. So, so sorry. Hang tight a second.” And then I dipped my lips to Elsie Fay’s ear and whispered, “It’s okay, honey. Stay right where you are. I got you. But do me a favor.” With effort, juggling her in one arm (not that she’d go anywhere with the hold she had on me, I just wasn’t taking any chances of letting her fall), I gently pulled her filthy, ratted hair away from her face and urged, “Just a peek. Look. It’s your mom and dad. Take a quick peek. They’re right here, and they can’t wait to hold you.”
She shoved her face deeper into my neck.
I heard her mother swallow a sob.
“Elsie Fay, honey, listen to me. I wouldn’t lie to you,” I promised. “You’re safe and your parents are here to take you home.”
It took a second, and it was both horrible and adorable, the timid way she peeked at her folks.
The next second, she let me go, twisted in my arms, planted her feet in my pelvis and launched herself toward her parents.
It was good she possibly ruined any future plans I had to carry children so I could concentrate on the pain in my girlie parts, such was the strength of her using me as a launching pad, and not lose my shit at watching her mother and father catch her, huddle around her, and their weeping turn into uncontrollable sobs.
I was then taken into a room with Chris Evans and Hottie Partner. There, I sat silent—partly due to the fact I was in shock at what those two were saying—mostly because they didn’t let me say anything—as they explained to the cops (another term you could use was lied) they were private investigators hired by Elsie Fay’s grandparents to look into the matter of her kidnapping.
The lie part was that I was on their team.
So, this was why they were at that house. They’d figured out the same thing I had.
They then shared I, being the least intimidating of the three (this was vexing, but true), made the approach. The bad guy made me, and promptly assaulted me, making the first move, so they had to move in. As we’d breached the house, and I’d already ascertained Elsie Fay was there, we carried on getting her out.
At least that last part was true.
By some miracle (which included some official looking older officer in a spiffy uniform coming in and asking the detectives to leave the room to “have a word”), this was good enough for the police.
Thus, with no ado whatsoever, they let us go.
The whole interview lasted, at most, fifteen minutes.
The thing was, I’d been escorted to the police station in the back of a cruiser, Chris Evans at my side, which meant my Juke was back at the bad guy’s house. And I was uncertain about a call to Luna for a ride from the police station.
This uncertainty was embedded in the real fact I’d never hear the end of it.
I mean, even Dorothy might leave Rose if Rose went off and did something Dorothy expressly advised her not to do, and a few hours later, that ended with a call for a ride from the police station.
(Okay, no. No way Dorothy would leave Rose hanging (maybe Blanche), but Shirley might do that to Laverne.)
I could call Tito, but on his way, he might get sidetracked by a biker bar or tiki lounge or remember the whereabouts of a speakeasy that was on his way, and I’d be there all night.
It was going to have to be a Lyft, which was money I didn’t have to spare, but whatevs.
However, I would find in short order I didn’t need a ride.
Oh no.
I was “escorted” (this, a nice way to say I was somewhat compulsorily guided) to a black GMC Denali, stuffed in the back seat and whisked here.
Which was part two of my denial.
I wasn’t sure what “here” was.
I knew it was an impressive set of offices in downtown Phoenix (and by the by, we drove by Lenny’s on the way here, and I now totally needed a vanilla malt).