Page 82 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

And I still believe him.

The cop follows Martha to her office, where she leaves us with a worried frown in my direction. She puts a comforting hand on my shoulder as the officer walks in to sit at her desk, taking up the only chair in the room and leaving me to stand awkwardly in front of the desk.

“You can close the door,” he invites almost lazily, taking off his sunglasses to look at me with small, dark eyes.

Dislike settles in my chest as I do what he says, leaning back on the door once it’s closed. I don’t like being in a small space with a man I don’t know, and my racing heart is proof of that. He doesn’t speak right away. The officer seems content to stare me down, like I might suddenly break and confess all of my sins to him.

Joke’s on him, though. My sins have been on public record for years. The thought makes my lips twitch in amusement, but naturally he notices and leans forward to rest his arms on Martha’s desk.

“I’m Officer Trudeau,” he says at last. “You’re Winnifred Campbell.”

I don’t like when people tell me my name like it’s something they can lord over me, but I force myself to remain neutral. I only nod, not saying anything out loud. It’s not like he’s asking me anything. Or accused me of anything, I suppose.

“I was surprised when I looked you up in the system,” Trudeau continues. “You had a rough time of it when you were young, huh?”

“Guess so,” I reply, forcing myself not to fidget or move like I’m hiding something. I don’t cross my arms or shove my hands in my pockets. I don’t even move except to readjust my weight against the door behind me. “Do you need something from me, officer?”

Please don’t ask about last night, I beg silently.

“The police were called to your house last night by a concerned neighbor. They said they heard a struggle and saw someone in your room around one am. But then you told the police that wasn’t true, and that you’d been asleep.” His eyes never leave mine as he talks, and he drones on flatly in a voice that would put my math teacher to shame, with how lifeless he sounds.

“That’s true. Do you need me to say it again? Or elaborate?” I ask, my words bolder than I feel.

He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “Calm down, Winnifred. You’re not in trouble here, I’m sure.” I don’t like the way he adds on the words I’m sure, like there’s still a possibility. “You know Edith Baker, yes?”

I blink owlishly at him, running the name through my head over and over to see if I can recognize it. “No?”

“She’s one of your regulars. A good friend of Martha’s?” Officer Trudeau prods.

“Oh!” So it hadn’t been an A or C or L like I’d thought. Apparently my memory for names is worse than the average person’s, judging by how I hadn’t even realized who he meant upon hearing her name. “Yeah, I know her. She’s here every morning. Except this morning. Did, uh, did something happen?”

If this is about her, then I really can’t be in trouble. I haven’t seen her since she hugged me on Friday and told me I’d be fine before Martha bustled me into Jeremy’s care to head for the urgent care center.

“She’s dead.” He doesn’t hesitate or soften the blow in any way. And considering the way he watches me for a reaction, I can’t help but wonder if he thinks I’m going to give something away by my reaction.

And then, belatedly, I wonder what he thinks there is for me to give away.

“Holy shit,” I murmur, sagging against the door behind me. “Dead? What happened? She wasn’t sick, right?” To my knowledge, she hadn’t been older than sixty or so. That would make sense, anyway, if she really had grown up with Martha. “Was there an accident?”

“No, Winnifred.” I hate the way he says my name. It grates on my ears like a poorly tuned instrument. “There was no accident. She was found this morning around four am.”

“I was dead ass asleep,” I reply before I can think better of it.

“And you were home alone, right? Your mom is out of town?” God, it’s creepy that he just knows that without referencing anything.

“Yeah. She does it a lot.”

“So you’re alone a lot.”

For a moment, I don’t reply. I don’t understand what he’s getting at, but I remind myself I have nothing to hide. “I’m alone a lot,” I agree at last, my skin prickling with anxiety.

“And where were you the night before? When Lacey Clarke was killed? I’ve heard you were at the crime scene that morning. Did you know about it beforehand somehow? You don’t live in that area.”

I’m already shaking my head before he’s done talking. “I was babysitting my nephew,” I say slowly, like he’s an idiot and I’m trying to explain things in simple terms. “Scott. His mother is my half sister, Louisa. I babysit for her all the time.”

“So it was just you and your nephew?” His eyes never leave mine, but he isn’t taking notes.

“Yes—wait. No.” I grimace apologetically. “My friend showed up and stayed the night, too. She was there when my sister got home as well.” I expect him to ask why, or something equally probing. “My friend’s name is Reagan Darcelle.” Maybe she can be my alibi, and I can be hers. Just in case Officer Trudeau has a grudge against babysitters.