Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
“Silas?” I call out, hurrying down the stairs as the doorbell rings.
From inside the kitchen, I smell coffee and bacon, and I’m almost to the bottom of the stairs when Silas comes down the hall wiping his hands on a towel. He must not have heard them pull up. The kitchen is at the back of the house.
“Good morning,” he says. “Looks good on you.” He gestures to his shirt, which comes to the middle of my thighs.
“Silas. It’s the police,” I say, hurrying to him.
The doorbell rings again and someone presses their forehead to the glass panel beside the door in an attempt to see in.
Silas’s expression hardens. He puts an arm out to place me behind him and walks to the door to answer it. He opens it and stops to take in the scene.
The plain clothes man stands at the door, hands in his pockets. His jacket is pushed back, and I can see the holster of a gun.
Behind him are three of the officers and the other two stand beside their cars.
“Yes?” Silas says to the plain clothes man.
“Silas Cruz?”
Silas nods.
“I’m Detective Wells of the Boston PD. We’re going to need you to come with us.”
“Why?”
“We have some questions we’d like you to answer.”
“What questions?”
“Well, for starters, we’d like to know what you were doing at Sullivan Fox’s office last night.”
Silas is clearly taken aback. “Why?”
“Mr. Cruz, if you’ll come with us,” Detective Wells says and steps aside, gesturing to the patrol cars.
“I don’t think I will. What the hell is going on?”
Detective Wells nods to one of the police officers who steps forward, a hand to the cuffs hooked to his belt.
“What’s going on?” I cry out.
“Ophelia. Go upstairs,” Silas says, never taking his eyes off the officers as he nudges me backward. “What is this about?” he asks Wells.
“Guess you haven’t seen the news this morning.” Silas waits, and I get the feeling Wells is enjoying this. “Sullivan Fox was murdered last night.”
“What?” he asks.
My mouth falls open. I’m stunned. A look at Silas tells me we both are.
“And it looks like you, Mr. Cruz, were the last person to see him alive. Let’s go.”
“He was alive and well when I left.”
“You can answer those questions at the station.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“We need you to come downtown.”
“He didn’t kill Sly!” I jump around Silas as a policeman comes into the house.
“Ma’am, step out of the way,” Wells says when the officer hesitates, looking at him for instruction.
“Ophelia. Upstairs. Now,” Silas says.
“No. They can’t just come in here and take you!”
“Remove her,” Wells instructs the officer who takes hold of me. The instant he does, Silas’s arm shoots out, and he grabs the officer’s wrist and twists his arm around his back.
“Don’t you dare touch her. Don’t lay a fucking finger on her!”
The next part happens so quickly, it’s almost a blur. I stumble backward as all three officers storm into the house, grabbing Silas, who resists. The coat rack falls over and I watch when it takes all of them—and they’re not small men—to restrain Silas, pulling his arms behind his back and cuffing him.
“Get him in the car,” Wells says and steps out of the way as they haul Silas, who doesn’t make it easy, out of the house and down the front stairs to the waiting patrol cars.
I run out after them, the porch floor freezing beneath my bare feet.
“Silas!”
“Call Nigella,” Silas says, turning to catch my eye. “Tell her to get to the station. Hamish will be here in an hour. Do not leave this house without him, Ophelia.”
I run down onto the drive and all I can do is watch as the patrol car he’s in is driven away, the second one following as if they expect trouble.
Wells comes to stand beside me. I hug my arms to myself as the cars disappear from sight.
“We’ll be downtown.” He hands me a card. “This is the address, but I suggest you stay home. It’ll be more comfortable for you while we interrogate Mr. Cruz.”
I snatch the card from his hand. He lets his gaze move over me and I pull the collar of the shirt closer, wondering how much of me he can see through the white shirt.
“Something’s burning,” he says, gesturing into the house.
I turn, smell what I guess is burnt bacon. Without bothering to say goodbye, I hurry back into the house and slam the door shut, going straight to the kitchen to turn off the stove. The coffee machine percolates, spitting out the last of the coffee, and I see where Silas had set two plates out. Toast is already buttered on each, and one of the mugs already has cream in it.
What the hell just happened? Sullivan Fox is dead? And they think Silas killed him?
I look down at the card, then move back into the hallway to right the toppled coat rack. From inside the pocket of my coat, I take out my phone and scroll to Nigella’s number.