Page 17 of Dying to Meet You
“No, I’m all right.”
I’m touched by the offer. Beatrice and I are friends at work, mostly because we both report to the same aggravating billionaire. But we’re not the kind of friends who swing by to make tea for each other when things get rough. “I’ll be late, though. The police tape is probably still up. I had meetings planned. Can you make excuses to the electrician? That was my nine o’clock.”
“Of course. Anything.”
“Thank you.”
“Call me when you know what your day will look like, okay?” she says. “Or call me if you’re not coming in.”
“Okay. Yeah. I think I’m coming in.” Aren’t I? What are the rules? I’ve never found my ex-boyfriend dead before.
“All right,” she says gently. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“Thanks. I mean it.”
I end the call, then force down a cup of yogurt. When a knock sounds on the front door, Lickie gives a single woof of warning, and I give her the side-eye. What would Lickie actually do if someone broke a window and came into the house? This breed of dog has a strong bite. They’re often used for police work. But ours is the most docile dog on the planet.
Plus, I trained her not to bark at visitors. Maybe that was a mistake.
Gathering myself, I open the door to find Detective Riley blinking back at me. Her hair is damp, as if she did a hasty job with the hairdryer, too.
“You look almost as tired as I am. Don’t they let you go home?”
“It depends.” She gives me a droopy smile.
“Coffee?”
“I wouldlovesome.”
I make myself busy pouring our mugs and offering her milk and sugar. I dust toast crumbs and Natalie’s crumpled napkin off the table.
I feel strangely like I’m living in two universes—the one where I’m supposed to feel ashamed of my shitty housekeeping, and the one where Tim shot himself to death in his car last night.
We sit down. I take a bracing sip, and Detective Riley does the same across from me. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?” she asks, taking out her phone.
“Um...” I do kind of mind, because that feels invasive. But I don’t want to get in the way of police work. “No, it’s fine.”
“Thank you. I’ve been tasked with the job of retracing the last days before Tim’s death.”
“Okay. I’ll help however I can. But I hadn’t talked to him in several days.”
She nods easily. “Since he’d ended things between the two of you? Was it ugly?”
I swallow hard. “It was hurtful. But not ugly. He just cut me off. Didn’t even give me a reason.”
She rests her chin on her hand. “How did he tell you? Phone call? Text?”
“Text. Monday night. It was very abrupt. We’d had dinner plans.” I pluck my phone off the table, open my texts, and show her Tim’s.
She reads the screen and winces. “Okay, wow. That’s curt. And you didn’t respond?”
“I called him. I’m too old to break up by text.”
She gives me a feeble smile. “And did he answer?”
I shake my head.
“That’s rough,” she says gently. “So when was the last time you saw him in person? Besides last night.”
