Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
“Such a poisonous tongue from the perfect daughter.” He smirks again.
“Stop that,” I chastise. He’s purposefully riling me up. He has no evidence, and he fucking knows it, so he’s trying to what… have me lose my shit at him so he can arrest me again? I’m not falling for his provocation.
There’s a knock on my door. It’s Charlotte’s voice on the other side, “Hope. Come on, girl, we’re going to be late.”
“Late for what?” he asks. “Do you plan to rob another victim?” I snort at the idea of him being a victim. “You find that funny?”
With my lack of response, Charlotte opens the door, looking down at her phone. “Your car is out front, Hope. I know you prefer to be left alone, but we have to go. I can’t believe I’m the one dragging you to be on it—” She stops in her tracks as she looks up, and her eyes go wide when she spots Braxton.
“Another suspect, considering she was in the same class as you.”
“There were over a hundred people in that class. Are you interrogating all of them as well?”
“I just start at where my gut tells me to,” he says and heads for the door. Charlotte tenses as he approaches her.
“I expect you to give Miss Ivanov my partner’s wallet, Charlotte. That little stunt cost him a date that he was very much looking forward to.”
Charlotte’s family is almost as influential as mine, which is most likely why she hasn’t been called into the station yet. But I’m certain that Braxton is one of few daring enough to do it, damned the consequences.
“S-sure,” she stutters, then looks at me, silently screaming for help. I’m not the one to look at since I’ve been trying to get rid of him myself. I look at my watch, having not realized the time. Fuck I really am behind schedule.
“I’ll be seeing you real soon, Hope,” Braxton says over his shoulder, then walks out.
Charlotte’s mouth is hanging open, but I don’t really have time to explain anything to her. I lost track of time, and now I have to hurry if I’m going to get the broken sculpture remade.
“I can’t go with you today,” I tell her busily. I need to start this piece immediately.
“What do you mean? It’s a charity event for the arts. Everyone who is anyone will be there. We have to go.” Like me, Charlotte is an artist, though she does mostly pottery.
Those types of events aren’t important to me. I don’t care for parties. I prefer to be by myself whenever I can. And especially in a heated moment when I have to prioritize starting this sculpture from the start.
When I don’t reply, she looks back at the door. “Was that one of the detectives from last weekend?”
I sigh, frustrated because I just need to get to work.
“Yes. Apparently, there was a murder at the club on the same night you stole the other detective’s wallet, and he’s investigating.” I look up distractedly and add, “Can you shut the door on your way out?”
I grab my apron and put it on.
“A murder?” She gasps. “He thinks we had something to do with it?”
“I never said that.”
She seems uncomfortable. “Oh. I just assumed. Anyway, it’s fine. I’ll go to the event on my own. Also, he doesn’t seriously expect me to return the wallet, does he? I threw it out on the same night.”
“Go and see if you can find it,” I say, exasperated. Because I know what will happen if she doesn’t—he’ll come back. And I don’t want him back here.
“Fuck.” She stomps her foot. “It was supposed to be a fun night.” I give her a warning glare. Charlotte is immature. She’s used to getting everything she wants when she wants, and when consequences are being rolled out, she throws a tantrum. She exasperates a sigh when I don’t agree with her. “Ugh, fine. I’m leaving,” she grumbles, dismissing herself and closing the door behind her.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, letting the rhythm of the classical music take over.
Everything is going to be okay. I’ll deal with the investigation bullshit later. Hopefully, the questioning about the murder is a one-time thing, but I have a nagging suspicion it won’t be the last time I see Braxton Hero.
I release a heavy sigh.
I’m going to have to call the buyer of the sculpture and tell her there’s been a delay.
I hate that.
I’m never late.
I’m always on time.
I have a feeling this is only the start of my time being encroached upon as a certain detective sniffs too closely. If my family catches wind of this, he won’t make it out alive. I’m trying to make the point to my parents I can stand on my own two feet, so I absolutely refuse to ask for help.