Page 44 of Killer on the Homestead
“Getting prints is good. We saw the mess they left. They’d have touched something, and there’s no way they had the sense to wipe it all down with a mess like that.”
She was surprisingly comforting when she wanted to be. “And then what?”
“And then we see if it connects to the murder. If it does, this might be a real big break.”
God, he hoped so.
Detective Beckett came back a few minutes later, but there was nothing in his hands. His expression was grimmer than it had been.
“Well, I think we figured out what they were after, or at least what they took. Bottle’s empty. No chance it was empty, and you just forgot?”
Empty… Duncan shook his head. “No. No possible way.”
“How many do you think you had left?”
Duncan blew out a breath. “Most of the bottle. I only take them sporadically. I’m not sure I could give an exact count, but I could get close if I sit down and think about it.”
“You do that. Once we clear you to go in, you make a list of anything that’s missing in as much annoying detail as you can manage.” He glanced at Rosalie with a little sneer. “Have her help. She knows what we’re looking for.”
She smirked at Copeland. “Flatterer.”
He rolled his eyes and strode away, back into the cabin, which was swarming with deputies. Well, it wasn’treallya swarm, it just felt like that.
“How about some ibuprofen or something. Will that take the edge off?”
“If I take a whole bottle,” he muttered irritably. “Listen. Hell, it’s late, and I’m not fit to be around anyone. You should head on home. I’ll drive you—”
“Are you going to go up to your parents and sleep there if you drive me home?”
He surveyed the strange landscape in front of him. His cabin. His things. Cops everywhere. “No, I won’t be able to sleep until I go through everything. See what they took besides my damn pills.”
“Then I’m staying with. Detective’s orders, remember?”
“You don’t have to, Rosalie.”
“Who said anything about having to? I’ll have you know, I don’t do anything Ihaveto. Except pay taxes maybe.”
It surprised a little laugh out of him, unbanded the tiniest bit of tension in his chest. He pulled her to him, rested his chin on the top of her head. “Thanks, Red.” For a minute, he was almost able to relax a little bit.
But then the detective came out of the cabin and walked over to them. “You can go in and clean up.”
Duncan watched as Copeland seemed to take notice of his arm around Rosalie.
“Get me that list as soon as you’re able.” Then he stalked away. Not angry, exactly. Just purposeful. The deputies were leaving the cabin too. Getting in cars, talking to each other as they did.
Duncan found that all of a sudden he didn’t want to go inside. Didn’t want to see or even begin to think about cleaning up or sorting through what he might still have, and what he might not.
So he focused on the little niggling thing that settled in his brain whenever Rosalie and Copeland were around each other.
“You ever have a thing with the detective?”
Rosalie looked up at him, and even in the dim light, he could see confusion on her face. Followed by amusement. “Definea thing?”
He scowled at her. “The point is the lack of definition.Thingcould be anything. That’s my point.”
“Does it matter?” she asked, her expression sober, even as amusement danced in her eyes. Shelikedmaking him uncomfortable, and that should be some kind of turnoff. But it wasn’t.
“It doesn’tmatter,” he replied, calmly if he did say so himself. “I’m just curious.”
