Page 15 of A Lifetime in 30 Days
“Is that how they ask for dates now?” Ronni asked.
Jamaica shook her head. “Nah, what you want to ask is if that’s how frat brothers ask their deceased brother’s wife out on a date?”
Vanna’s eyes widened as heat creeped onto her cheeks. Aden didn’t look bothered by either question. He simply replied, “It’s how I ask a woman I haven’t seen in a long time out to catch up.”
Well, that shut them up. All three of them.
Until Vanna thought the silence was rude and way too uncomfortable, so she opened her mouth to reply, only to have it quickly clap shut again when she heard, “Savannah Carlson?” in a deep male voice she didn’t recognize.
It had come from behind her, so she turned to see who it was. Probably another guest who wanted to offer their condolences before leaving. There were actually two men approaching her now: one, a medium-build Black man whose salt-and-pepper hair was badly in need of a cut; and the other, an older Caucasian man, with thinning brown hair and black-framed glasses.
“Yes,” she replied. “I’m Savannah Carlson. Were you friends of Caleb’s?” she asked because she didn’t recognize either of them.
They were both dressed in suits—a muddy brown and a gray pinstripe. Both could use new shoes.
Mr. I Need a Haircut stepped up first. He moved his hand so that it pushed back the side of his suit jacket to reveal a badge attached to his belt, and said, “I’m Detective Andy Parish from the Metropolitan Police Department, and you’re under arrest.”
Chapter 6
Conspiracy to embezzle money from the Lennox Casino.
That’s what she was being charged with. The words, followed by her Miranda rights—which, after hearing them so many times on TV and in movies, were more like a litany than a warning—now replayed in her mind.
She sat in a room that wasn’t as dark as she’d imagined an interrogation room at a police department would look. The walls were painted that government-beige color and had scuff marks in various areas around the room. The floor was a basic tile—again, very government issued. As was the dark, brown-topped table and the three chairs around it. Well, two chairs were on one side, and the chair she sat in was on the other side by itself. That’s how she felt, like she was by herself—which she literally was.
On the ride from the cemetery to here, she’d sat in the back seat, alone. Her purse was still in Ronni’s car, which meant her phone was too. Which was probably for the best. She didn’t want anyone in here in possession of her personal items. The detectives hadn’t cuffed her; instead, because she hadn’t yelled and screamed her innocence or tried to run through the cemetery in an effort to get away from them, they had simply walked her to their twenty-something-year-old town car and opened the back door for her. She slid onto the seat, willing herself not to cry. Her hands had immediately fallen into her lap, and she clasped her fingers to still them. Her stomach had twisted as she crossed herlegs and looked out the window, trying to find the calm that refused to come.
Now, with her hands flat on this table, she could only stare down at them. They’d put her in this room and left her here for who knew how long. It seemed like an eternity, but she figured it may be going on an hour. She hadn’t requested an attorney yet, hadn’t spoken a word to them since asking, “Are you serious?” at the cemetery. Their stoic faces had been the answer to that question, while Jamaica and Ronni held Granny back after she’d tried to charge the detectives the moment she saw what was happening.
Vanna knew Jamaica and Ronni would take care of her grandmother. They would see that she got home safely, and then they would get on the phone and find her an attorney, find out how they could get her out of there, and all that. They were her best friends—no way they were going to let her rot in jail.
Oh, gracious, was she going to rot in jail?
And for a crime she was absolutely oblivious to?
She’d been to the Lennox Casino, which was located in the National Harbor area, maybe twice in the three years since it had been open. It was the smallest and newest of the casinos over there, so when she did desire to visit a casino, she normally chose the bigger, more well-known ones in the area. Overall, though, Vanna wasn’t a gambling person. She would much rather spend her hard-earned money on home improvements, helping Granny, and her hair. Clothes, shoes, nails, et cetera—those were at the bottom of her top-five money-priority list, right after saving for her dream trip to Ireland—which nobody understood why she had in the first place.
So, just how she would’ve managed to conspire to embezzle anything from a place she barely frequented was beyond her. That had her thinking of HC Sr. and Jr. She prayed Jamaica and Ronni knew not to call either of those jokers to help her. Since she’d worked for them, she’d learned all that was behind the reputation of so-called ambulance chasers. Their priority was always their bottom line and the quickestway to it, which was why their percentage of settlements was twice as high as their litigation stats. Still, she would definitely need a lawyer to reiterate what she planned to say the moment those detectives came back into this room: that she was innocent.
She was drumming her nails on the table, her knee shaking violently beneath it, when the door opened and, as if she’d summoned them, the two detectives stepped in. Detective Stuart Beaumont—he’d introduced himself in the car—pushed his glasses up on his nose and was the first one of them to take a seat. Detective Andy Parish closed the door and, with a folder in one hand, took the second chair across from her.
“Mrs. Carlson,” Detective Beaumont said, “we have some questions to ask you, and if you answer them all correctly, this interaction will go a lot easier.”
So, he was going to be the bad cop. Okay, she could roll with that. Actually, she couldn’t, because she was scared out of her mind, but she wasn’t about to show them that.
“How about I answer truthfully?” she asked, then told herself to remain silent.
She could sit there and just let them talk. Then sit even longer while she waited for her attorney—whoever her friends found for her—to appear. Or she could at the very least try to find out what the hell was going on.
“That’s a good idea,” Detective Parish said.
He had a smirk on his face that told her he wasn’t exactly going to be the good cop in this scenario. Whatever. She already knew to trust them only as far as the next question or bogus charge they could toss her way. While she generally trusted most cops to do their job and protect and serve, all that went out the window when she was falsely accused.
“You were married to Caleb Carlson,” Beaumont said. “Correct?”
“Yes.” Because whether or not she answered, they already knew that to be true.
“When was the last time you saw your husband? Before his unfortunate demise?” Beaumont continued.
