Mercifully, the phone rings, Holt’s line flashing on the phone in front of me, distracting me from my murderous thoughts.
Holt and Morrison glance in my direction when it doesn't stop, like I'm their secretary and they can't understand why I'm not jumping to answer it so they can continue to chill out.
"Will you grab that for us? That is, if you're not too busy…" Holt sneers.
My brain feels like someone's stabbing it with a knitting needle, and the combination of being in pain and pissed off makes me want to turn around and scream at them. I snatch it up, annoyed with myself for doing what they want me to, but also, slightly grateful for the distraction. "Detective Harris."
Flipping open the notebook beside me, I rest my chin on one hand, pen hovering over the blank page.
"Detective, this is Margaret Holloway from Holloway Printing and Packaging on Maple Street." The voice is older, female, and slightly shaky. "I spoke to Detective Holt a few weeks ago about some missing funds from my business account."
I remember him mentioning this. She was distraught, convinced her longtime employees were stealing from her but unable to figure out how or what money had been taken.
"Yes, Mrs. Holloway. What can I do for you?"
She was advised to gather up as much information as she could without tipping them off before coming back to us. A hunch unfortunately wasn’t enough to get Holt moving.
"I have the evidence now." Her voice steadies, gaining strength. "I hired someone to go through all the paperwork and pull everything together. The falsified invoices, fake companies, all of it. I want to press charges."
Her son has been less than convinced that this was actually happening, but it looks like she was right all along.
"That's good news, Mrs. Holloway," I say, keeping my tone polished and professional. "I can come by this afternoon to have a look at what you’ve found and take your statement. Can you make sure your forensic accountant is present for me to speak to?"
Holt and Morrison continue to laugh and joke, not the least bit interested in this new case that's come in. Or any of the others currently piling up on their desks. In fact, I know they'll be happy they dodged this one too. Far too much paperwork and not enough action.
"Thank you, Detective. Thank you so much." She sounds close to tears. "I just want this over with. These are people I trusted. My lawyer says I can't fire them just yet… not until you’ve had a look."
I’m glad she’s proceeding with caution and not confronting anyone alone. If they could steal from an old lady, they might be capable of hurting her if they think she’s involved the police.
"I understand. I'll be there within the hour. Make sure your son or your accountant stays with you and please don’t discuss it with anyone. Not yet."
Grabbing some painkillers from my desk drawer and tossing them into my mouth, I make a face as I swallow them dry. I throw on my jacket and snatch up my keys, eager to get out of here.
"Stealing my case, Harris?" Holt calls after me as I weave through the packed office tables and chairs. As if he reallywantsto do actual work.
"Doing your job, Holt," I reply, pulling my keys from my pocket and heading for the door.
The drive is short, thankfully, as I have to roll down the window and gulp down some fresh air to help my queasy stomach. As I turn onto the street, I spot the printing firm halfway down the block. It's a large, warehouse-type building, with a small reception office building over to one side. It's been here for decades and hasn't changed one bit apart from the odd lick of paint.
When I pull into the parking lot, I come to an abrupt stop smack back in the middle of the huge, practically empty space.
Because Beau Lennox's truck is out front, right under the Holloway sign.
Driving into a space three spots down, I kill the engine, and for a moment, I just sit, hands on the wheel, staring at that damn truck. He’s not here, is he?
Of course, he is.
We should just stay out of each other’s way.
If I didn’t feel sick to my stomach, I’d laugh. The universe has a twisted sense of humour, but right now, I am not amused.
Although, I have to admit that a pathetic, traitorous part of me is happy to see it, the part that remembers how it felt to have the full weight of his intensity directed solely at me. That’s the same part that still wakes up some nights with the memory of his hands on my skin burning me up, and the evidence of how needy I am making me damp between my thighs. Even now, butterflies take off inside me, and I feel slightly giddy with the anticipation of seeing him.
Except the rational, realistic part of me knows exactly how this is going to go. Badly. Because while my pathetic pussy longs for him, he hates my guts.
And even if I hadn’t already fucked things up beyond repair, he’s right. I can’t date a Lennox.
I press my fists against my eye sockets and silently scream in the safety of my vehicle. Cursing, I force myself to sit up straight, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. Then, I apply a fresh slick of lip balm and pull my hair down from its neat bun.