I squeezed my eyes closed and tried toignore that repeating refrain.
But it, like the storm, beat on in myhead.
Chapter 2
I woke the next morning to a loud, insistentknock on the door.
It took me several seconds to rememberwhere I was. The room wasn't at all recognizable now it wasday.
For a few startled seconds, I took in thepleasant décor. There was a nice plush cream carpet throughout thelarge room. There were several wooden dressers and tables, and a TVstand with a modern flat screen TV that was a heck of a lot largerand better than the crappy CRT in my apartment backhome.
Trinkets lined the mantelpiece. Carvedgemstones, inlaid abalone boxes, painted china. There were a fewartful western oil paintings on the walls and the prettiest silk rug I’d ever seen – a green, blue,and pale red cherry blossom pattern that somehow didn’t clutter theroom with all its detail.
There was one glaring omission, though. While there were plentyof pictures and plenty of decorative objects, there were no photosof family.
Whoever was outside knocked again.
“Yeah, yeah, hold on,” I grumbled as I staggered off thecouch.
I instantly pressed a hand against my upper thigh where thecat had scratched me.
And that… that's when I realized the catwas in exactly the same position it had retreated to last night. Itwas sitting there on the window sill in the bay window, propped upon the artful French provincial style white and blue cushions. Andit was staring at me. Intently. It looked as if it hadn't moved amuscle.
“Well that's creepy,” I muttered to myself as I hooked a rightout of the sitting room door, walked down the hall, and reached thedoor.
I opened it without any attempt to makemyself neat and presentable. Because, hey, there was no chance. Notonly had I spent the whole night curled up on the couch, but myhair was wet and matted from the storm, and my pants were torn inseveral places.
I figured it would just be some neighborhere to pay their condolences.
I opened the door and was greeted by a tall, handsome guyfrowning down at me. He was handsome in that unconventional way yougot sometimes. I'd seen bigger guys, better proportioned, withsparkling eyes and the kind of smiles that could sell everythingfrom underpants to toothpaste.
I'd seen guys with better jaws andstronger features. But there was something about the sheer force ofthis man’s gaze that was more compelling than any movie star couldmuster.
I blinked in complete confusion as the guyalmost growled at me. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Chi,” I answered, suitably startled.
“Where's Joan?” The guy's brows knotted together as he continuedto shoot me the kind of look that told me while I found himintriguing and attractive, he thought I was something the cat haddragged in.
I frowned. “Ah… you don't know?” I saidcarefully. Despite the fact this guy had been a rude prick so far,he clearly didn't know my grandmother was dead.
I was good with surprisingly few situations.Telling a complete stranger a friend was dead was up there withbeing able to fly a plane.
“Ah… she’s… she’s….”
I continued to fumble over my words, andthe guy continued to shoot me the kind of look that told me I hadno place invading his field of vision.
He half shoved past me. “Joan? It’s Detective Coulson.”
I stiffened, shoulders riding up high nearmy ears.
The guy saw it. His gaze darted over andlocked on my obvious tension. “Where is Joan?” he asked through asuspicious growl.
I could hardly keep the truth from him anylonger. So I cleared my throat and used my most diplomatic voice.“Dead. She'sdead.”
You should have seen his eyes– they practically explodedfrom his head as his suspicion turned to outright rage. “What thehell did you do to her?” He started reaching for something by hiship, and I didn't need to be a genius to figure out it was probablya gun.
I snapped my hands up andflushed so brightly it looked like my cheeks hadchanged into neon signs. “She died twoweeks ago, heart attack. I’m her granddaughter. She left the houseto me in the will. I’m meant to go through her stuff.”
“I think I'd know if Joan had died,”the guy snapped.
My hands still in the air, my heart stillracing at one million miles an hour, I shook my head. “She reallyis dead. If you don't believe me, just look up her obituary on yourphone. I think there was even a piece about it in your local news.”
Either there was something about my tone,or the sheer look of non-murderous panic in my gaze, because the detective reached a hand into his pocket andplucked out his phone. He did, however, keep his other handhovering close to the holster strap around his side.
I stood there in total crazy fear as Iwaited for him to a) find the news piece on his phone, or b) grow bored and shoot me.
Fortunately, he didn't have an itchy trigger fingertoday.
I watched his features pale in shock as heobviously found the news piece. He even brought a hand up andclamped it over his mouth.
The guy had been nothing but brutal andrude up till this point, but my heart still went out to him.
“Oh… god… I’m… sorry, I had no idea. I'vebeen out of town for a month.”
I still had my hands in the air andshrugged through an empathetic wince. “It's okay.”
With his hand still locked over his mouthin that familiar move all tough guys do when they're trying toswallow their emotions, he offered me a distracted nod again, thenfrowned at my arms. “You can put them down, ma’am. I'm sorry forthe confusion.” He pushed a hand out. “Myname is Detective Dave Coulson. I didn't mean to startle you likethat. I'm sorry for your loss,” he added in the kind of tone thattold anyone he wasn't lying.
My hands dropped, and I tried to look asif I'd lost something too.
An overbearing grandmother who thought my mom and I were fraudsand who’d probably given me this house so that I could watch itslip away as I paid her bills?
Yeah. Not a lot of disappointment there.
Just as I caught myself thinking that,
