Whiskey Sour by Liliana Hart

take care of any fees since it’s considered an investment on our part. The next Citizens’ Police Academy starts next Thursday, and you’ll need to do that on top of the classes for your license. You’ll also need to be able to pass a physical fitness portion of the test. Just like a regular cop.”
    “I don’t suppose that involves lifting donuts to my mouth?” I asked.
    “Buck up, Buttercup. If everything goes as planned, you should have that license in the next six to eight months. Barring disaster, of course. Which come to think of it—”
    “Be nice. I’ve done pretty well at averting disasters lately.”
    “True. And your eyebrows are growing back nicely from when Danny Gorman tried to barbecue you with that flamethrower.”
    I made a note to myself to remember to go by the unemployment office to see about benefits. Hopefully , they’d be sufficient enough that I could afford to go without a full time job for six to eight months. Otherwise, I was going to have to sell Slurpies and condoms at the nearest 7-11. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but the 7-11 in Savannah had been held up three times in the last six months and I had an aversion to having my head blown off.  
    “Thanks, Kate. You’ll see. I’m going to ace the shit out of that test.”
    Kate laughed her real laugh, and some of the tension melted between us.
    “And Kate,” I said. “When you’re ready to talk , I’ll be here day or night. Whatever you need.”
    I heard her take a deep breath on the other end and knew from habit that she was letting it out slowly as a way to control her emotions. Kate didn’t get emotional. She was steady as a river in winter.
    “I know,” she said. “Thanks.”
    She hung up the phone and I knew there was nothing left for me to do until she emailed me the information on Amanda Whi tfield. I flipped the TV on to a Friends marathon and settled into bed. I needed a good night’s sleep and a clear head to face Agent Savage tomorrow afternoon.
     
     

CHAPTER SIX
     
     
     
    Saturday—barely
    A pounding at the door woke me some time after midnight. I’d been a cop’s daughter long enough to know that usually wasn’t a good thing. A million different scenarios raced through my mind as I tried to untangle myself from the covers—my mom had been in a plane crash, Kate had been in a shootout, Rosemarie had been eaten by her dogs—the list of possibilities was endless.
    I tripped over the hall runner and banged my shoulder into the doorframe, racing to some unknown catastrophe. The house was completely dark, but I didn’t stop to turn on the lights.
    I flipped on the porch light and checked the peephole, becoming even more upset when I saw Nick standing there. What if the double homicide he was working was someone I knew? Or worse, what if I was being accused of the murder? It wouldn’t be the first time.
    “I didn’t do it!” I said as I opened the door.
    “I hope not,” Nick said. “I just got here. I’d hate to have to kill anyone.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “What are you talking about?
    “If you don’t know , then never mind,” I said, standing back to let him in.
    I flipped on the overhead light and got my first good look at him. He looked dead tired. His face was shadowed with heavy stubble and his eyes were drawn and shadowed. Whatever he’d seen today must have been really bad. He looked sad, but at the same time he was practically crackling with anger. He had a shitty job sometimes, but he was damned good at it.
    “What are you doing here?” I finally asked, noticing the bag slung over his shoulder for the first time. He was wearing his off duty clothes—old jeans that were worn thin in places and a black t-shirt that clung to every muscle in his chest and arms.
    “I’ve got exactly five hours until I have to be up and back at the station,” he said , dropping the bag where he stood and giving me a look hot enough to melt butter. “Sleep is