herself to my laptop. Then she stepped over to Blake’s desk and scooped up his laptop, which he’d only moments earlier placed there.
“That’s mine,” said Blake.
“The warrant stipulates all computers in the home, sir. We’ll need to search the rest of the house.”
If The Look could kill, Blake would be arrested for wife-icide.
“Do you want dinner?” I asked after Menendez and her posse left with our computers.
“Only if it’s liquid.”
Relatively Speaking was quickly turning my husband into an alcoholic. Yet another heaping pile of guilt for me to add to all the other guilt weighing me down.
“All your files are on the college server, right?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point? It’s not like they’re going to find anything incriminating either of us in Not-Sid’s murder or anything else. We’ll have our computers back in no time.”
“The point, Gracie, is that this little business venture of yours has turned our lives into something out of a bad reality TV show.”
“What happened to ‘we’ll get through this, Gracie’?”
“We will. What remains to be seen is if we’ll get through it with both our sanity and our bank accounts intact.”
I suppose I couldn’t expect Blake to refrain from dumping salt on my ouchies forever. After all, the guy’s only human, and I’d certainly given him ample reason with the current mess I’d created. Still, a supportive hug right about now would have been nice. Instead, he stormed off back upstairs, and I headed into the kitchen to throw together a dinner neither of us would probably eat.
~*~
Three hours later the doorbell rang. Parents live in dread of two things when their kids aren’t safely ensconced under their roof. One is the late night phone call; the other is the late night ring of the doorbell. Both always send chills up my spine. Tonight the chime shredded what remained of my already frayed nerves. I jumped, the book I’d been trying to read (with little success) flying from my hands and landing in the middle of the family room.
Blake reached across the sofa and placed a hand over mine. “Relax, Gracie. One of the kids probably decided to come home for the weekend and forgot to bring a key.” He set aside his book and headed for the front door.
Did I buy that? Not for a moment. When had either of the twins last forgotten their house keys? Not since middle school. Besides, it was only Thursday night, and both Connor and Brooke had Friday classes. They wouldn’t dare cut so early into the school year, not with a college professor father.
No, the Elliott offspring were studying in their respective dorm rooms at this hour, Brooke at NYU and Connor a few miles farther north at Columbia. Or so I convinced myself, trying hard to forget my own college years and what little studying actually occurred on any given weeknight.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to slow the gallop of my heart. The kids are okay. The kids are okay. The kids are okay . I silently repeated the mantra over and over again until I heard Blake walking back toward the family room. He wasn’t alone, but neither was he with either offspring.
“Let me handle this, please,” I heard Blake say just before he entered the room with Detective Menendez.
NINE
“Gracie,” said Blake, “Detective Menendez needs you to go down to headquarters with her to answer some additional questions.”
I didn’t move off the sofa. My gaze shot back and forth between the two of them. Menendez looked all business; Blake looked all worried. I did my best not to freak. “At ten o’clock at night? Can’t this wait until morning?”
“I’m afraid not, ma’am. Murder doesn’t punch a clock. The longer an investigation takes, the less likely we are of solving the crime.”
“Then have a seat, Detective. Pull out your little spiral notebook and ask away.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you need to come with me.”
“Are you
“That’s mine,” said Blake.
“The warrant stipulates all computers in the home, sir. We’ll need to search the rest of the house.”
If The Look could kill, Blake would be arrested for wife-icide.
“Do you want dinner?” I asked after Menendez and her posse left with our computers.
“Only if it’s liquid.”
Relatively Speaking was quickly turning my husband into an alcoholic. Yet another heaping pile of guilt for me to add to all the other guilt weighing me down.
“All your files are on the college server, right?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point? It’s not like they’re going to find anything incriminating either of us in Not-Sid’s murder or anything else. We’ll have our computers back in no time.”
“The point, Gracie, is that this little business venture of yours has turned our lives into something out of a bad reality TV show.”
“What happened to ‘we’ll get through this, Gracie’?”
“We will. What remains to be seen is if we’ll get through it with both our sanity and our bank accounts intact.”
I suppose I couldn’t expect Blake to refrain from dumping salt on my ouchies forever. After all, the guy’s only human, and I’d certainly given him ample reason with the current mess I’d created. Still, a supportive hug right about now would have been nice. Instead, he stormed off back upstairs, and I headed into the kitchen to throw together a dinner neither of us would probably eat.
~*~
Three hours later the doorbell rang. Parents live in dread of two things when their kids aren’t safely ensconced under their roof. One is the late night phone call; the other is the late night ring of the doorbell. Both always send chills up my spine. Tonight the chime shredded what remained of my already frayed nerves. I jumped, the book I’d been trying to read (with little success) flying from my hands and landing in the middle of the family room.
Blake reached across the sofa and placed a hand over mine. “Relax, Gracie. One of the kids probably decided to come home for the weekend and forgot to bring a key.” He set aside his book and headed for the front door.
Did I buy that? Not for a moment. When had either of the twins last forgotten their house keys? Not since middle school. Besides, it was only Thursday night, and both Connor and Brooke had Friday classes. They wouldn’t dare cut so early into the school year, not with a college professor father.
No, the Elliott offspring were studying in their respective dorm rooms at this hour, Brooke at NYU and Connor a few miles farther north at Columbia. Or so I convinced myself, trying hard to forget my own college years and what little studying actually occurred on any given weeknight.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to slow the gallop of my heart. The kids are okay. The kids are okay. The kids are okay . I silently repeated the mantra over and over again until I heard Blake walking back toward the family room. He wasn’t alone, but neither was he with either offspring.
“Let me handle this, please,” I heard Blake say just before he entered the room with Detective Menendez.
NINE
“Gracie,” said Blake, “Detective Menendez needs you to go down to headquarters with her to answer some additional questions.”
I didn’t move off the sofa. My gaze shot back and forth between the two of them. Menendez looked all business; Blake looked all worried. I did my best not to freak. “At ten o’clock at night? Can’t this wait until morning?”
“I’m afraid not, ma’am. Murder doesn’t punch a clock. The longer an investigation takes, the less likely we are of solving the crime.”
“Then have a seat, Detective. Pull out your little spiral notebook and ask away.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you need to come with me.”
“Are you
Similar Books
