I raise a brow. “Are yousureyou don’t need to come back to therapy?”
She waves me off. “I could probably use a lifetime of therapy. But no, I’m good.”
I sip my coffee, hesitating. “Did Nate ever… send you presents? Like my stalker?”
Carina visibly shivers. “God, no. But now I’m kind of annoyedhe doesn’t.” She grins. “Something to bring up later.”
We chat about lighter topics for the rest of breakfast, and by the time I get to the office, I’m genuinely glad I went. It felt good to get out, to break the monotony that’s settled over my life since moving back to England.
The police are waiting at the reception desk when I arrive. They’re in plain clothes—clearly detectives—but the badges hanging around their necks give them away. That, and there’s just something unmistakable about police officers.
My hands tremble at my sides.
Blowing out a breath, I straighten my spine and walk towards my office with confidence.
“Miss Morgan?” one of them calls just as I’m about to pass.
Damn it.
I turn, keeping a polite smile firmly in place. “Yes. I’mDoctorMorgan.”
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about your colleague, Doctor Moore—I’m sure you’ve heard he’s missing.”
Of course. The man gets theDoctortitle, but not me. I mentally roll my eyes. Then immediately feel like shit, because he’s missing and most likely murdered by someone who sent me his finger as a present.
“Of course. Please, follow me.” I don’t wait for their reply as I march them into my office, away from prying eyes and ears.
I take a seat behind my desk while the two detectives settle on the patient couch. My fingers twitch nervously in my lap, but I force myself to keep still.
“We’ve been reviewing Doctor Moore’s movements before his disappearance, and it’s come to our attention that you were out to dinner with him on Friday evening.”
My lungs work overtime to keep oxygen flowing.
Fucking CCTV. Why did I assume no one would know?
I gulp. “Yes. We went to Le Haute.”
“What was the nature of the dinner?”
I lick my dry lips. “Two colleagues discussing work.”
“So it wasn’t for pleasure?”
“We’re just colleagues who went out for a meal. There was nothing else to it.”
They share a look, scribbling notes.
“And how did the evening end?”
“It was a short dinner,” I say—truthfully. “He walked me back to my flat, and that was it.”
“How was his behaviour that evening?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was he nervous? Jittery? Anything to suggest he might have run away?”
My knee bounces beneath the desk. “I wouldn’t know. He seemed fine while we were out.”