Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
“Right.” I stirred my coffee with a spoon, even though it didn’t need it. “I’m sure you’ve heard the news.”
“A detective notified me yesterday morning. Awful.”
My mind flashed to finding Erin dead on her floor. I paused, swallowed, pulled myself together.
“Obviously, we missed our meeting with you,” I plowed on. “I know your movie will go on even with what happened to Erin.”
“Yes, we have a deadline to wrap up shooting here in Cutthroat in three weeks.”
“Right, that’s why I was calling. Did you want to meet later today to talk end-of-shoot party?”
“Kit, Kit, Kit.” His voice sounded as if he were scolding. “We can’t work with you now. I mean, there’d be bad press. The movie’s event planner was murdered. That’s what the tabloids would latch on to, not the movie itself.”
I set my elbow on the table, rested my forehead in my hand. “But—”
“You’ve done great work, but my assistant has found someone else.”
He had no clue what kind of work we’d done. It had been all behind the scenes tasks, planning a venue, caterers, band, for the party. He was full of shit. And he wasn’t going to change his mind. I knew his kind. Rich, self-centered, thoughtless. I felt sorry for Poppy.
“I hope they find out what happened to Erin. Good kid.”
He hung up. Good kid?
I groaned. Loud. Stood. Paced. Tried to rip my hair out.
Eddie Nickel’s production company had been Mills Moments’ biggest client. Our biggest money-maker that would have lasted almost a year in events and projects for the movie they were shooting now. We’d hoped they’d use us for future work as well. This work was why I’d returned to Cutthroat.
Now? Only one other client remained, a baby shower scheduled for next month. I looked up the hostess’s number, introduced myself when she answered. “I’ve got the invitations ready to go to the post office.”
“You can just drop them off, Kit, and I can take over.”
My stomach dropped and tears clogged my throat. I took a second, tried to keep my voice even. “Are you sure? That’s our job.”
“Our?” she replied. “Your partner’s dead… murdered and you’re carrying on as if it never happened.”
I shook my head but she couldn’t see it. “No, no, it’s not like that. Erin would want to ensure her clients’ needs are being met, that their events go smoothly.”
“They are,” she snapped. “Leave the box of invitations on my front porch. You’ve been paid for work to date.”
She, too, hung up without saying goodbye.
Mills Moments was officially out of clients. Out of business.
I had no trust fund. No rich parents. I needed to make money. So much for my dream job. My mind turned to the diner, where I’d worked all through high school and college. I’d made decent tips. Would they take me back?
I glanced at the clock on the stove, stood. I had to get to the police station for my statement. The only positive was that I’d see Nix.
7
KIT
“You said on the 9-1-1 call that Erin was dead.”
Detective Miranski sat at the table across from me. She was in her early thirties, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. White dress shirt with a simple turquoise necklace. While I couldn’t see beneath the table, she was wearing jeans and sturdy leather boots. She was pretty, but understated. Kind, since she’d introduced herself with a smile when I’d first arrived, but very thorough.
I had to guess Nix had asked her to do the interview, perhaps for impartiality, I wasn’t sure.
She wasn’t Nix’s partner, but they were the two police detectives in Cutthroat County, assigned to different cases. Erin’s murder was a big deal, and probably Mr. and Mrs. Mills had put the pressure on the department to find the killer. Detective Miranski seemed competent and put together, making me second guess what Nix saw in me. Why wasn’t Nix into her? Smart, pretty. Employed. Probably had an alibi for Saturday night. I, on the other hand, was out of a job, currently homeless, living out of a travel bag and a murder suspect.
The interview room was just like on TV. White walls, industrial carpet on the floor. A metal table with four chairs. A one-way mirror.
I glanced up at Nix, who stood in the corner, leaning casually against the wall. He looked incredible in jeans and a dark blue golf shirt with the police department logo embroidered on the chest. I wanted to run my hands all over him, but folded them in my lap. Besides stating his name and job title for the video recording an hour ago, he hadn’t said anything else. Barely moved.
I tried to block him out, for if I didn’t, I’d think about how I knew exactly what he looked like beneath his shirt, that I’d pawed and licked every inch of those rock-hard abs. And other rock-hard places on his body.