Deathblow by Dana Marton Page B

she stared at him.
    Right. No grabbing. He let her go, biting back a curse.
    “Hey,” he said quietly. “It’s going to be okay.” Then he reached out slowly and took her hand, ran the pad of his thumb over her fingers.
    A long moment passed before she nodded, but her posture didn’t relax. She peeked over his shoulder, and for a moment she looked like she could cry, but she bit her lip. “That high chair was my mom’s. My grandfather made it. It was supposed to be handed down in the family.”
    Joe resisted, not for the first time, the impulse to pull her into his arms. But it wasn’t like that between them. They’d had one wild night. One wild hour and a half, really. She wasn’t his.
    Officer Conti shuffled over. “Ma’am, are you the tenant?”
    “Yes. Wendy Belle.”
    He introduced himself and his partner. “Can you tell me when you left home, Miss Belle?”
    “Yesterday morning. I’m staying at a friend’s place.”
    “Does anyone else have a key to the apartment?”
    “My ex-boyfriend, Keith Kline.”
    The man’s gaze cut to Joe. “And Officer Kessler here?”
    “I gave him my key to check on something.” She rubbed the heel of her hand over the bottom of her coat. “I received some hate mail today. A bloody wig. I thought it might be mine.”
    “Was it?”
    “I don’t know.” Her gaze darted past the man. “Is there a short, dark wig on the peg on the back of the bathroom door?”
    Conti called out the question to his partner. Officer Tuchman checked the back of the door, then the rest of the bathroom. “Not here.”
    “Anything else missing?” Conti asked next.
    Wendy looked around from the threshold. “I can’t tell from here.”
    “The DVD player and the TV weren’t taken. A burglar would have gone after the electronics,” Joe put in. “This looks personal to me.”
    Officer Conti nodded. “Do you have contact information for—” He checked his notes. “Keith Kline?”
    Wendy rattled off the address and phone number.
    “I’m also going to need an address and phone number where I can reach you,” the officer said, and he wrote all that down too.
    Then the man turned to Joe. “Same for you. You were first on the crime scene.”
    When Joe listed the same address, the officer raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t comment.
    Tuchman finished cataloguing the damage and gave the all clear, and they finally let Wendy in. Joe went with her, staying two steps behind, giving her space. She walked through, her face tight as she checked the damage. She didn’t cry or throw a fit. She kept her expression schooled, although she couldn’t completely hide the fear and sadness in her eyes. But it was the resignation in the set of her shoulders that got to Joe.
    He let her take her time. Maybe she needed to see the destruction, needed to see how violent Keith was, how badly he could hurt her. She needed to be pushed past denial. Hopefully this would do it.
    Even Justin’s room had been trashed. She stood on the threshold, looking at the scattered toys as if unable to step inside.
    She checked the bathroom last and came out with her arms wrapped around herself. “I don’t see anything missing except the wig.” She hesitated.
    Tuchman stepped closer. “And?”
    Wendy bit her lip, avoiding Joe’s eyes. “A pregnancy test.”
    Tuchman raised her eyebrows. “Why would he take that?”
    Wendy hugged herself tighter. “It was positive.”
    Joe’s gaze snapped to her slim waist. The pregnancy had to be fairly early.
    He acknowledged the disappointment that hit him. So she was still hooking up with Keith. Might not be entirely by choice either. Violent men often forced themselves on their partners. He kept the anger that thought brought under control and resolved to ask her some questions later.
    “Is Keith Kline the father?” Tuchman wanted to know.
    Wendy shook her head.
    Okay, so she was seeing someone else. Better than Keith forcing her into something she didn’t want.
    No reason