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“We are, but I’m not privy to her personal finances. What do you mean Roman had no assets to split? The Tates are loaded.”
The detective ignored Penny. “When did you begin seeing Mr. Tate?”
“I met him when I signed up for his acting classes after moving to Los Angeles. I suppose that would have been sometime in June of last year. I don’t remember the exact date, but I’m sure there’s a confirmation email somewhere that would state when I began paying tuition.”
“I’ll need to see any correspondence that corroborates your testimony.”
Penny gave a vague, tired wave of her hand. “Fine.”
“When did your relationship go from professional to something more personal?”
She was forced to think on the question. Not because she couldn’t remember but because she couldn’t be sure of the correct answer. When had it switched over?
It might have been the day Roman had called Penny up onstage, his dark eyes fixed on hers, that musical voice lulling her into a moment of heady lust before the rest of her classmates. She could still feel the ghost of his breath on her shoulder, the whisper of his touch on her back. Skin against skin, as if he were right here in this room. But that was impossible, because Roman Tate was dead.
Penny bit her lip, studied the cop across the table.
“I’m thinking,” she said at his raised eyebrows.
Maybe it wasn’t the day onstage when things had changed. Maybe it was the moment she’d accepted his offer for feedback on her stolen script. She’d gone to him knowing it was a ruse, knowing she wouldn’t walk away unscathed, and she’d been right.
Penny felt the familiar growl of anger rising in her gut as she remembered—all of it, every sordid detail. She rested a hand on her belly and felt movement there and, beneath it, a pit of despair.
Roman Tate had ruined her life.
“I didn’t know the question was so complicated.” The cop cleared his throat. “I’m looking for a date, ballpark if that’s the best you can do.”
“Of course it’s complicated,” Penny snapped.
But when had their relationship truly ramped up to new highs? Penny was beginning to think it hadn’t been that day in his office after all. It had probably been the first time they’d seen each other outside the studio, a date disguised as a business dinner. They’d ordered wine, lingered. He’d picked up the check, walked her to her car. Penny closed her eyes, recalling the way his thumb had traced down her cheek in a playful, seductive goodbye.
Her skin burned. Then her eyes flashed open, her cheeks on fire.
“Are you feeling all right?” the cop asked. “Can I get you more water?”
“I’m fine,” Penny said. “Give me a minute. I’m not sure on the exact date.”
That wasn’t entirely true, however. Penny did know the exact date. At least she knew the date of the obvious start of their personal relationship. The first time they’d had sex.
Sick with memories, Penny leaned against the desk, pushing thoughts of damp sheets and pleasured cries out of her mind. “The summer of last year. July or August. Is that good enough?”
The officer jotted another phrase onto his notepad. “When did you discover that Mr. Tate wasn’t actually separated from his wife? And had no plans of doing so?”
Penny’s lips thinned. “We went over this the first time you questioned me.”
“At that time, we hadn’t found enough evidence to arrest anyone in conjunction with Mr. Tate’s death,” the detective said with a coy twitch of his lips. “That has since changed.”
“So you say,” Penny said with a snort. “But then you tell me your best guess is Eliza. She didn’t do it.”
“Did Eliza love Roman?”
“Yes,” Penny said. “At least at some point.”
“Are you aware that we suspect Eliza and Roman’s marriage was a fraud from the start?”
“What?”
“Eliza Tate’s visa was due to expire three weeks after she married him. Did Roman ever mention the fact that he’d married Eliza only to grant her citizenship?”
