Look Me in The Eyes (Keeping an Eye on Her Book 2) by S. B. Sheeran
Authors: S. B. Sheeran
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Look Me in The Eyes
Chapter 1
Martinez stared at the drab black clothed group flocking where the casket laid beneath the weeping willow tree. The breeze stirred the leaves in her direction and the words of the sermon were carried on it to where she stood. She had made sure she was not close to the mourners because she hadn’t wanted to hear the priest talk about a time to mourn and weep and all that clichéd stuff they really shouldn’t say at funerals.
Who the hell wrote those lines , she thought to herself. Whoever it was needed a good clobbering, because people needed to wail, scream, break things and cry to the point of dehydration when a loved one was killed for as long as they wanted. It was all part of the process. But no, instead they were walked through the five stages of grief by some psychologist, who chances are had no idea what real grief was. Then they are told that they need to accept the fact that a loved one was dead sooner rather than later.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid, head shrinkers , she thought referring to the old woman who smelled of peppermint and newspapers she had been forced to bond with for the last couple days. She had at least thought her shrink would have been some eye candy, but no, they dug Martha up from whatever rocking chair she had retired in, and now she had to deal with her.
With a sigh and acceptance that it was the only way she was going to get back in the field, she had accepted it all.
“Not going any closer?” she heard Lampard’s voice say behind her. Martinez did not turn she simply closed her eyes, quieted her palpitating heart and willed away the anger the voice stirred. She had been hoping the woman would have been one of the few heads she could not see in the crowd in front of her. Her plan had been to show up after everybody else had arrived and leave before they did.
So much for that.
She could smell Lampard’s signature perfume wafting to her on the soft wind that blew in reverence, and she knew that if she turned to look at her, the sight would pull her in. Martinez couldn’t have that, not right now anyway.
She was still too irrationally angry about her friend’s death, and even more so at the fact that Lampard had unnecessarily provoked the killer whose bullet was meant for her. Martinez had not yet gotten to the point of forgiving her. She was a lot less angry but had a long way to go.
“I am sorry you know,” Lampard’s shaky voice said from behind her.
Martinez kept her eyes closed and she heard the woman sigh then walk away. She took a chance and opened her eyes to see the designer black trench coat and dark curls heading toward the group of gloom. She figured it was time to leave, she could always come back later to give Connelly a piece of her mind for jumping in front of a bullet. She would remind his corpse of all the promises and plans they had made as friends, plans she would have to carry out alone and promises he had broken.
Less than an hour later she took a deep breath before knocking on Martha’s door, for what was supposed to be her final session. After three weeks of enduring her strong peppermint scent, Martinez was hoping it would finally be over.
“Good afternoon, Detective,” the old woman said with the usual Cheshire smile ridiculously plastered across her face. Martinez mumbled a less than enthusiastic response and sat in the depressing mauve chair that squeaked every time she moved.
“Interesting colour for a funeral,” Martha said pointing at the full suit of white that Martinez wore.
The woman looked at her as if expecting her participation in that line of conversation, but Martinez said nothing.
“Are we going to do the silent thing again today?” Martha asked. “That does not help you know.”
Martinez thought long and hard before she responded, knowing that what she was about to say could likely have her on desk duty until she was Martha’s age, but she just couldn’t take this anymore.
“You keep
Chapter 1
Martinez stared at the drab black clothed group flocking where the casket laid beneath the weeping willow tree. The breeze stirred the leaves in her direction and the words of the sermon were carried on it to where she stood. She had made sure she was not close to the mourners because she hadn’t wanted to hear the priest talk about a time to mourn and weep and all that clichéd stuff they really shouldn’t say at funerals.
Who the hell wrote those lines , she thought to herself. Whoever it was needed a good clobbering, because people needed to wail, scream, break things and cry to the point of dehydration when a loved one was killed for as long as they wanted. It was all part of the process. But no, instead they were walked through the five stages of grief by some psychologist, who chances are had no idea what real grief was. Then they are told that they need to accept the fact that a loved one was dead sooner rather than later.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid, head shrinkers , she thought referring to the old woman who smelled of peppermint and newspapers she had been forced to bond with for the last couple days. She had at least thought her shrink would have been some eye candy, but no, they dug Martha up from whatever rocking chair she had retired in, and now she had to deal with her.
With a sigh and acceptance that it was the only way she was going to get back in the field, she had accepted it all.
“Not going any closer?” she heard Lampard’s voice say behind her. Martinez did not turn she simply closed her eyes, quieted her palpitating heart and willed away the anger the voice stirred. She had been hoping the woman would have been one of the few heads she could not see in the crowd in front of her. Her plan had been to show up after everybody else had arrived and leave before they did.
So much for that.
She could smell Lampard’s signature perfume wafting to her on the soft wind that blew in reverence, and she knew that if she turned to look at her, the sight would pull her in. Martinez couldn’t have that, not right now anyway.
She was still too irrationally angry about her friend’s death, and even more so at the fact that Lampard had unnecessarily provoked the killer whose bullet was meant for her. Martinez had not yet gotten to the point of forgiving her. She was a lot less angry but had a long way to go.
“I am sorry you know,” Lampard’s shaky voice said from behind her.
Martinez kept her eyes closed and she heard the woman sigh then walk away. She took a chance and opened her eyes to see the designer black trench coat and dark curls heading toward the group of gloom. She figured it was time to leave, she could always come back later to give Connelly a piece of her mind for jumping in front of a bullet. She would remind his corpse of all the promises and plans they had made as friends, plans she would have to carry out alone and promises he had broken.
Less than an hour later she took a deep breath before knocking on Martha’s door, for what was supposed to be her final session. After three weeks of enduring her strong peppermint scent, Martinez was hoping it would finally be over.
“Good afternoon, Detective,” the old woman said with the usual Cheshire smile ridiculously plastered across her face. Martinez mumbled a less than enthusiastic response and sat in the depressing mauve chair that squeaked every time she moved.
“Interesting colour for a funeral,” Martha said pointing at the full suit of white that Martinez wore.
The woman looked at her as if expecting her participation in that line of conversation, but Martinez said nothing.
“Are we going to do the silent thing again today?” Martha asked. “That does not help you know.”
Martinez thought long and hard before she responded, knowing that what she was about to say could likely have her on desk duty until she was Martha’s age, but she just couldn’t take this anymore.
“You keep
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