LITMIR.BIZ

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up all the air in the place. Megan suddenly felt nervous. But when she peered beyond his broad shoulders and saw the normally statuesque Louisa looking so frail and vulnerable as she tried to scrub the ink from her hands at a grimy, gray, industrial-sized enamel sink, a fist of anger curled deep in Megan’s belly, squeezing away the nerves.

      “I need a moment with her,” she said quietly. “Alone.”

      He held out his hand. “Room down on the left.”

      “Come, Louisa,” she said, taking her aunt’s arm, feeling the cop’s eyes burning into her back as they went down the corridor to the interview room. He had a way of stripping her naked just by looking. It made her legs feel like jelly and she had trouble concentrating on the simple act of walking.

      “Leave the door open so I can see you both,” he called out as they were about to enter the windowless neon-lit room.

      She glowered at him.

      Dylan checked his watch. The longer he left them, the more chance D’Angelo had of showing up before he could squeeze Louisa. Yet he was legally obligated to give them time alone. He unhooked his phone from his belt, was about to punch in his home number and let Heidi know he wasn’t going to make it for dinner, when his mobile beeped.

      He flipped it open. “Hastings.”

      “Sergeant, it’s the lab. We’ve managed to lift the serial number of the murder weapon. The Smith & Wesson .38 that killed Sam Whittleson is registered to Louisa Fairchild.”

      Bingo!

      This was going to make things a hell of a lot easier. He’d now be remiss not to have brought her in.

      He flipped open his phone, relief rushing through him as he called his daughter.

      Megan placed her hand gently over Louisa’s slender veined one. It felt as fragile as a bird under her own, and beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting her aunt looked much older, drained. It wasn’t surprising. No innocent person deserved to be fingerprinted like that, to be forced into an airless and sterile room with one-way mirrored glass, seated at a table that had been bolted to the floor. Especially not an eightyyear-old woman of Louisa’s stature in the community. “How are you holding up, Louisa?” she asked softly, studying her aunt’s blue eyes.

      “Where the blazes is Robert?” she snapped. “I’ll be fine as soon as he gets me out of this hell hole.”

      Megan hesitated, not wanting to upset her aunt further by telling her Robert might not make it through the APEC barricades tonight. “He’s…on his way. He instructed you not to say a word, Louisa. Silence cannot be held against you, but anything you do say can be used in court—”

      “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Megan, this is not going to get to court!” But a flicker of fear in her eyes belied her bluster.

      Megan glanced at Detective Sergeant Hastings talking on his phone down the hall. “He must have some reason to hold you here, Louisa,” she said in a whisper.

      “Impossible!”

      “Then why do you think he brought you in?” she said calmly. “I mean, they already questioned you after the Lochlain fire, and cleared you, didn’t they?”

      Louisa went silent, her eyes suddenly uncertain, and without the habitual steel they were startlingly reminiscent of grandmother Betty’s eyes. And of Megan’s mother’s eyes. An acute sense of love and loss rustled so sharply through Megan that it put a catch of emotion in her throat.

      This irascible grande dame really was her family.

      And a sense of family was something Megan yearned for.

      “I didn’t kill him, Megan.”

      “I know that, Louisa.” “Do you?”

      Conflict twisted through Megan. She wanted to say yes. But in all honesty she knew very little about Louisa.

      For a moment she couldn’t answer.

      “I did not shoot Sam, Megan,” Louisa insisted, eyes narrowing. “I did not set fire to that place. I had nothing to do with the old bugger’s death.” She smoothed back a stray wisp of hair that had escaped her chignon as she spoke, and Megan noticed that her hands were shaking. Louisa’s face also had a strange sheen to it, her skin unusually pale save for two little hot spots forming high along her cheekbones. In spite of her stiff spine and the defiant tilt of her chin, her aunt was unraveling.

      Megan needed to get her out of here soon.

      “Would you like me to get you some water?”

      “Just get me Robert, for mercy’s sake. What are we waiting for?” Her breaths were coming too fast, too shallow. She was perspiring.

      “I’m getting you some water,” Megan insisted, standing up.

      She marched along the passage to where Detective Sergeant Hastings stood talking on his phone, and her whole body instinctively braced, adrenaline beginning to hum in her chest as she approached him.

      But he angled away from her slightly as she neared, lowering his voice as he spoke into his mobile so she wouldn’t hear. “Listen, chook,” he said softly. “I’ll explain when I get home. I’m really busy right now—”

      “My aunt needs water,” Megan demanded, standing square in front of him.

      He glanced up, a flash of irritation in his eyes that shifted quickly into something quite different as he took in the faint damp patches her wet bikini had formed on her dress. He pointed to the water cooler next to a desk on his right, his eyes dark.

      Megan swallowed, cursing the effect his look had on her as she went to get water.

      “We’ll talk when we get home, okay, kiddo?” he said almost inaudibly, the gentleness in his voice catching Megan by surprise. She stilled as she bent over to fill a cup at the cooler, unable to stop herself from listening in on his phone conversation.

      “There’ll be other parties—no, listen—” He hesitated. “Sweetheart, wait—”

      He swore suddenly, and flipped his phone shut, eyes narrowing as he saw Megan watching him.

      “Your daughter?” she asked, standing up, cup of water in hand.

      He shoved his mobile back into his gun belt, his eyes flat, inscrutable. “Shall we proceed with the interview now?”

      But Megan held her ground. “You’re a dad, aren’t you? A family man. Can you not find it within yourself to show my aunt some compassion? She’s eighty, for goodness’ sakes.”

      “She’s also rich. Is that why you’re here out of the blue, Ms. Stafford? Because she’s pushing the wrong side of eighty and has amassed a small fortune?”

      Her eyes narrowed sharply. “Damn you,” she whispered. “I’m worried about my aunt’s welfare, not her money, and if you don’t charge her immediately, I insist you let her go.”

      He held out his hand, showing her the way. “Let’s get this over then.”

      But as they entered the room, Louisa stood up shakily, pressing her hand against her sternum as she tried to brace herself against the table. Her face was ashen, her skin damp.

      “This…this is ridiculous,” she said, her voice coming out in a rasp. “This cannot be happening. I need…to leave—” She tried to walk, wobbled, and gripped the back of her chair to steady herself.

      Megan rushed forward, taking her by the arm. “Louisa, please sit—”

      “Where’s Robert?” she said hoarsely, panic straining her features. “I…I won’t go through this. I will not be subjected to this. I…refuse to do this without Robert. He wouldn’t let this happen. He would not let it get this far.”

      Hot tension whipped through Megan. She shot a look at Hastings as she helped Louisa back down into the chair.

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