The Taken. Vicki Pettersson

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СКАЧАТЬ with his ambitions, and he’d married her before realizing the entire inheritance had been poured back into her family’s newspaper. He’d even encouraged her to sell once he realized newspapers were worth less in the Internet age than the paper used for printing, but there was no way she’d ever do that.

      “I’m a newsperson, Paul,” she’d told him. “It’s who I am as much as what I do.”

      “Then go down with your ship,” he’d replied. “But you’re not taking me with you.”

      And he’d taken himself right out of her life.

      “Being rich doesn’t make a person immune to the law,” she said now, another familiar argument.

      “There’s no proof that anyone on this list has broken the law,” Paul pointed out.

      She knew that. And it would take considerable resources—time, energy, favors, and yes, money—to prove otherwise. For now, Kit had her reporter’s instincts. “I saw something.”

      “Tonight?” He leaned in again when she nodded. “What?”

      “A man … or his silhouette, at least. He was in the room with Nic. He pulled aside the curtain that overlooked the parking lot. It was like he was looking right at me.”

      “Did you see his face?”

      Kit shook her head. “No. Only his silhouette. But he was wearing a hat—not just a hat, but a stingy brim, like Sinatra—”

      Paul leaned back, letting his hands drop. “Gimme a break.”

      “I know the style, Paul,” Kit said, irritated. “Maybe he knew I was there, or just knows of my lifestyle, and he was taunting me.”

      “Please don’t repeat that to anyone. I can see the sordid headlines now: Rockabilly Murderer Targets Street Whores.”

      “Bravo,” Kit snapped. “You just insulted my life and my profession in one breath.”

      “Voice,” Paul reminded her, gaze wandering. The girls across from him straightened, but his expression remained smooth as it traveled the rest of the room.

      Kit pulled out her gold cigarette case, mumbling, fighting not to whack it against his pretty head.

      “You can’t smoke in here.”

      Kit blew a stream of smoke directly into his face, running her tongue along her top lip when he coughed. The girls gave her a nasty look.

      “These are vintage Gauloises.”

      “Trolling eBay again?”

      She shook her head. “Some old coot was storing them in a backwoods cabin for the past fifty years.”

      Shaking his head, Paul stood. “I gotta go.”

      “Wait.” She put a hand on his arm, panicked but unable to help it. “You’re gonna help me, right?”

      His jaw clenched as he looked away. He was either considering it or posing for a profile shot. “You got anything else?” he finally asked.

      “In my notebook, but I gave that to Nic.” She cursed the impulse now. There was little chance of recovering it as it’d surely been admitted into evidence.

      Paul opened his mouth to answer, but stopped and jerked his chin at an approaching detective. “Here comes Dennis. He’ll look after you. You don’t need me tonight.”

      Kit stared up at him, wondering at what point he thought she’d have ever needed him, if not tonight.

      Glancing back down, Paul caught her expression and his jaw clenched. “Look, I’ll read the reports. Ask around, see what I hear.”

      He paused, waiting for a thank-you, but Kit merely took a drag on her stick. He was right, she didn’t need him.

      Shaking his head, he turned.

      “You know, Nicole was once your friend, too,” Kit said loudly, just as Dennis reached her side. “She was killed because someone was hiding something big.”

      Paul turned slowly, and waited, knowing there was really nothing he could do if she was determined to make a scene. It was just another thing he couldn’t control about her—like her hair and clothes, like her lifestyle. Like her emotions.

      “I’m going to find out who did it,” she told him, chin wobbling but gaze hard. “I’m going to find out what they were hiding. And I’m going to bring them to justice.”

      “Still the intrepid girl reporter,” he said, but the bite had left his voice, and his gaze had softened. It was what he’d called her in the beginning, back when she, too, had gazed at him like those girls across the room. Tears, already close to the surface, welled.

      “Give me a couple of days,” Paul finally sighed, returning, one hand outstretched for the papers. “I’ll look into it in my spare time.”

      “Thank you,” she replied, even though he’d said it like there wouldn’t be a lot of it.

      Leaning down, he gave her a dry kiss on her cheek. “Get some rest, Kit.”

      Kit didn’t say anything, but watched him go, like every other girl in the room. Then she shrugged at Dennis’s chiding look, sucked down the last of her stale tobacco, and rose to be questioned about her best friend’s murder.

      Kit spent the next few hours in a room with the cold personality of a morgue, giving a statement about the time, hours, and days, leading up to Nicole’s death. Some questions could have as easily been applied to a job application as a murder interview, and strangely, these were the ones that tripped her up. How long have you known Nicole Rockwell? What’s your relationship to the deceased? Have either of you ever been a part of a murder investigation before?

       Oh, Nic.

      The hysteria she’d felt at the murder scene was gone, and the resultant shock had dulled into a numbness to rival a visit in any dentist’s chair. The indignation at being questioned—no, doubted—by Paul had evaporated like boiling water, not too unlike their relationship, actually. All that remained was a faint ring of fatigue.

      Dennis, whom Kit had known both personally and professionally, in that order, brought her fresh tea, let her light another cigarette while they were still alone, and put a comforting hand on her shoulder, kneading slightly at her neck before letting his arm drop. Kit looked up with a watery smile, grateful for even that small touch.

      “You understand we have to ask you these things,” he said, when his partner arrived and she’d been read her rights and informed the interview would be recorded. “Not because we think you’re guilty, but because it’ll help us put together a picture of the events leading to the crime. Rarely is something like this truly random.”

      “I know that.”

      “That’s right,” said his partner, who was so stiff he could have been pressed into his clothing. He’d introduced himself as Detective Brian Hitchens. She didn’t know him, but unfortunately he seemed to recognize her. “You’re СКАЧАТЬ