Page 8 of No Lies No Promises

Worse? God, no.

Having no other choice, we sit in the waiting area’s uncomfortable orange plastic chairs while Sean tells his abridged version of events—no lies, per se—but not the whole truth, either.

“So, you have no idea why this person attempted to run you off the road?” The detective clearly doesn’t believe him.

“No, sir. None.” When Sean pitches his voice higher, I picture him clutching pearls and hold back a snicker.

Not amused, the cop fires back, “Why did you turn around after he… they tried to kill you?”

It’s a reasonable question. We'd be home in bed by now if we'd called 911 and waited in the Ferrari.

Sean shrugs, maintaining his poker face. “As I said, I thought the driver might need first aid, so I grabbed the car jack and went to help.”

Lawler counters, “With your weapon.”

“Which I'm licensed to carry,” Sean volleys back.

Not missing a beat, his opponent returns the ball. “What exactly do you do for a living, Mr. Clark?”

“Forensic accountant.”

“A profession that doesn't normally require a firearm.”

“Former Marine. I feel naked without it.”

The detective lets the silence hang for a beat before turning to me. “What about you? Did you recognize the victim?”

He thinks I’m stupid? “How would I know? Neither of us saw him or her. Do you have a picture?”

Clearly disappointed, he grunts. “We’re still trying to identify the body.”

After a few minutes, he rises and hands my partner a card. “Contact me if you think of anything else.”

“Thank you, sir. We will.”

Pursing his lips, the officer drums his fingertips on his notepad. “Do you need help getting home?”

I shake my head. “Thank you. No. The rental company said our car should arrive shortly.”

At the door, he pauses, changes his mind, and turns back. “Who did you say you worked for?”

The scar in Sean’s brow dances. “Dante and Associates.”

“Hmmm.” Frown deeper, the officer narrows his gaze. “Never heard of ’em.”

Chapter 5

Sean

While the orange light bleeding below the horizon grows brighter, Lillian strides across the ER's nearly empty parking lot. She returns driving a black, bulletproof SUV. Stopping in front of me, she lowers the passenger window. “Looking for a good time, sailor?”

“Hop out. I’ll drive.” When I limp around the hood and tap on the glass, she scowls at my thigh.

“Nice try. Not happening.”

Fine. Shotgun it is. If last night wasn't a random accident, I'll be ready. Hobbling back, I grit my teeth as I lower myself into the seat.

Ouch. Fucking stitches.