Page 28 of Faded Rhythm

The man pretending to Officer Bernard keeps it clinical. “How soon can you make it back to Atlanta, Mr. Graves?”

“I’ll be on the first flight ouuuuuuuut!” he cries.

“Good. We’ll need you here as soon as possible for questioning. Investigators will want to speak with you directly.”

“Of course,” he says. “Oh, God. My poor little girls…”

Then he hangs up.

It’s silent for a moment, then King thanks the man and ends the call.

A bitter laugh bursts out of me. “I can’t believe I ever loved that man.”

King glances at me, surprised, but he doesn’t speak. Instead, he points to the hotel.

“I got a room. We should head in. We got work to do.”

I nod and open my door, stepping out onto the pavement and into the unknown. My pulse is racing. My legs are shaky. I know nothing will ever be the same again, and that’s terrifying.

But also…I don’t want it to be.

13

King

She enters the roombefore I do, and even from behind, I can tell she isn’t very pleased with the accommodations.

West Avenue Inn and Suites was the closest. I figured she’d wanna be near the girls just in case.

She’ll be alright.

It’s a small room, I admit, but it seems efficient. The lights buzz faintly overheard. The gray carpet smells faintly of cleaning product and chlorine. I almost run into the back of her when she stops in the middle of the room.

Oh.

I see what she’s looking at.

She turns away from the single queen-sized bed to look at me, one eyebrow raised.

“I’ll sleep in the chair,” I say quickly. “I asked for two beds, I swear.”

Our eyes move to the chair at the same time. The pattern is ugly as hell. Thin cushion. Wooden arms. No recline. It looks like a good place to put a suspect for aggressive questioning.

She sighs, letting her overnight bag drop from her arms. It hits the floor with a dull thud and she hits the bed, belly-first, her hair spilling around her shoulders like black silk.

“You need a nap?” I ask, watching the slow rise and fall of her back with each deep breath.

“Mm mm,” she hums without lifting her head. “I know we have work to do. Just give me sixty seconds.”

I nod, setting both of our laptops on the small wooden desk. Mine is black, a rugged brick of a machine. This thing is built for war. Hers is sleek, slim, and civilian. Made for online shopping and blogging. Do people still do that?

Behind me, she heaves herself off the bed with a soft grunt, coming to stand beside me.

“Iknewyou were military.”

I look up at her. “What does that mean?”

She smirks. “The way you talk. It reminded me of my grandaddy. And now that I see that,” she says, pointing at my laptop, “I see I was right.”

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