Page 36 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind

Then she nods to the café counter. “Well, I’m gonna go talk to Mel so we can speculate wildly about why the police are here,” she says. “Later, Man Bun.”

“Heidi is the only one who gets to call me that,” I say with narrowed eyes.

“Nope,” she says, popping thep.“Sorry. It’s public domain.” And then she’s off, waltzing around the café counter and back into the kitchen, and I’m left shaking my head.

I write a total of two hundred words while I’m waiting for Heidi to come back, and it’s like pulling teeth. I force myself not to jump out of my seat when she reappears, leading the policemen to the door. I also force myself not to stare at her, not to examine her facial expression for any clues as to how she’s feeling.

She’ll tell me if she wants to.

The foreboding in my gut intensifies, however, when instead of leaving, the policemen swerve toward me. Heidi looks surprised.

“Are you Soren Mackenzie?” the short one says.

I clear my throat. “Yes,” I say.

Why am I so nervous? He’s just asking my name. It’s not like I’m lying to him. Still, with the way my heart is racing, I would absolutely fail a polygraph right now.

“Could we have a word?” the tall one says.

I want to say no. I want to tell him to leave me alone. But that doesn’t feel like the smart option, so I nod. I set my computer aside and stand, and the tall one gestures for me to follow him.

Maybe they want to get my statement again.

My gait is stiff, my arms swinging awkwardly at my sides as I trail through the shelves, emerging by the bookshop sales counter and then passing into the storeroom in the back. It’s cluttered enough that the three of us have to squeeze, shuffling around and finding our footing between the stacks of boxes.

“What can I help you with?” I say, forcing myself to breathe normally.

“You were present yesterday during the death of Mrs. Carmina Hildegarde, is that correct?”

“Yes,” I say.

“You should know that that death is being treated as suspicious, due to the claim of the deceased that she was murdered,” the tall one says. “We contacted a number of eyewitnesses yesterday, based on Miss Lucy’s account of everyone who was present at the time of the death. It appears that there was some contention between you and the deceased that you didn’t mention at the time of your statement yesterday; is that correct?”

His voice isn’t hostile, but it’s not friendly, either. It’s businesslike bordering on curt, and the look on his face is the same. His partner’s expression is no better.

“We—we argued sometimes, yes,” I say.

The short one nods. “Want to tell us more about that?” It’s not a question.

Crap.Crap.

“I’m sorry,” I say stupidly. “I don’t understand what’s going on right now. Am I a suspect?”

“Let’s not put labels on things yet,” the tall one says. “We just want to talk.”

I almost snort. I’m a suspect here. I’m totally a suspect. What the heck is happening right now?

“Carmina and I fought over the same chair,” I say, and I can hear the dazed note in my voice. “That’s it. That’s all.”

The short one nods, flipping through a notepad that seems to have materialized out of thin air. “We have a report here that you were heard threatening violence to the deceased.”

“I—what?” I say, bewildered.

“Mmm,” the short one says. “‘I swear I’m going to dropkick that woman all the way to Yellowstone,’ according to my report.”

Holy crap. Ididsay that. I said that yesterday.

Why did I say that? And who snitched on me?

---