Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Sherry nods, her eyes clouding for a second and then clearing again. “I am right in the middle of an episode.”
The young woman with wet brown hair and chocolaty eyes waits as Sherry retreats down the hall, and then, when the bedroom door has been shut and the TV cranked up to full volume, she moves her attention back to us. Her face is full of pigment and shame, and as much as I want answers, I give her the space to provide them in her own time. She’s distraught, and my chest pinches at the thought of adding to the feeling.
“I’m sorry. I . . .” She pauses, and her hands tighten protectively around the flimsy towel on her body. It’s shorter than a towel should be in a circumstance such as this one—though I imagine no length is satisfactory when getting surprised by two strange men in your house—and I make a point to keep my eyes at a higher elevation. “What did you say your names were?”
“We didn’t get a chance to,” I answer, gentling my voice as her throat works against her current state of emotion. It’s clear by the sheen now coating her eyes that she’s upset. I show her my badge, and Shane does the same. “I’m Detective Dominic Dunn with the Metro Nashville Police Department, and this is my—”
“Detective Dominic Dunn?” she asks, her voice going up by at least an octave and her skin reddening even further.
“That’s right.” I nod. “You must be Hannah May.” I know by the sound of her voice she’s the woman I talked to this afternoon.
“Oh my God,” she whispers harshly. “You’re really a detective?”
“Yes, ma’am. Really.” I nod again and offer as friendly of a smile as I can manage. “Like I told you on the phone earlier today, my partner, Detective Shane Maddox, and I need to speak to you about an active investigation.”
“Holy shit. I can’t believe this is happening,” she mutters, her eyes moving to her feet for a beat before they jerk back up to mine. “I thought you were some horny guy who wanted to role-play! I wouldn’t have . . . I didn’t know . . . oh my God! Active investigation? Am I in trouble?” she rambles. “Is . . . is . . . is phone sex illegal? Because Margo didn’t tell me it was illegal when she—”
“Hannah, I assure you, you are not in trouble.” I cut her off in the name of helping her calm down. “Phone sex hotlines are legal in the state of Tennessee.” I soften my smile, trying my best to put her at ease. “We just need to ask you a few questions in regard to a case we’re working on. It won’t take long, I promise. We can be out of your hair pretty quickly.”
“I can’t believe I tried to phone-sex an actual detective,” she mutters, but it’s more to herself than to me or Shane. She resembles a deer in the headlights, and as a result, I feel an undeniable urge to bring a little levity into the room.
“We’ve obviously gotten our wires crossed a few times today, but look at us now, huh?” I shrug and smile. “I think we’re doing pretty good.”
“You think we’re doing pretty good?” She blinks slowly three times, but her deadpan gaze never leaves my face. “My mom let you in the house while I was in the shower because she thinks you’re special agents on NCIS—a.k.a. her favorite TV show—and I introduced myself to you this morning as Ruby Cocklover. I don’t think I’d call this good, Detective Dunn. I don’t think this is good at all.”
Fair point.
Shane does his best to contain his laugh, but the fight is in vain, and all three of us know it. I hit him with hard eyes before stepping forward as unthreateningly as possible. “If you don’t mind me asking, why is it that your mom thinks we’re someone we’re not and that you’re twelve years old?”
“I’m twenty-five,” Hannah clarifies, wrapping her towel a little tighter around herself. “But my mother was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s when I was twelve. Clearly, it’s . . . progressing.” She shakes her head, and a cavernous sigh leaves her lungs. “Do you mind if I make sure she’s settled and get dressed? Then we can talk?”
“Of course,” I answer without hesitation. “Take all the time you need.”
She takes a deep breath and spins on her heels, heading back down the hallway I assume leads to her bedroom. I don’t miss the way wet strands of her brown hair hang down her back or the soft sounds of her bare feet as they move across the hardwood floor.
Hannah May isn’t at all what I pictured during my phone call with “Ruby Cocklover.” Not even a little bit.