“It may not be.” Dan shrugs.
He’s right. This could be a whole lot of nothing.
“You mentioned they were taught by the same person? Who was that?” I’m afraid I already know the answer to this question.
Dan moves some things around on the table until he finds what he’s looking for. “Dr. D. Buchanan.”
Shit.Instead of saying something I may regret, I say, “How ’bout the footage from the elevator in Kara’s building?”
Finch begins to carefully place papers back into his box. “Nothing yet.” He looks over at me. “And Social Apartments’ management promised to get the garage camera repaired today.”
“Follow up with that today, will you?”
“Sure thing.”
“What about Falco?”
Finch turns to face me and Dan. “Left a message.”
“Okay. Keep on him. Call again until you get him.”
“We could go to his place,” he suggests. “I found an address for him.”
“Good job, Finch.” I nod. “Yeah. Let’s try this afternoon.”
Standing from my spot at the conference table, I turn to leave.
“Hey, Golden?”
Looking back at Finch, I wait.
“Isn’t that girl… the one who made the cookies… isn’t her last name Buchanan?”
“Yes.”
“She any relation to that professor?”
“She may be.” She is. I just need a minute before I relay that information to the team. “Let me use the john, and I’ll check my notes when I get back.”
“Cool.” Finch smiles proudly. As he should. He’s smart. He’ll make a great cop in time.
Chapter Twenty-One
Daisy
When a knock sounds on my front door, I’m startled awake. Looking around my room, I do my best to remember what day it is and why I’m so damn cold. The sight of my bed with no sheets, blankets, or pillows reminds me. I should have turned on the furnace last night, but I had other things on my mind.
The knocking redirects my attention to the front door. Sliding off the bed, I don’t even bother looking in the mirror. I know I look like shit and that my hair probably resembles something close to a rat’s nest, but I don’t care.
Without looking through the peephole, I wrench the door open and stare at the man of my dreams and that other guy. The one who loved my cookies. “Oh.” I do my best to get my hair under control, but it’s no use. “Morning.”
“It’s afternoon, ma’am,” the other guy deadpans.
“Rough night,” I mumble. Turning, I walk back into my place, leaving the door open wide and hoping they just take the hint and follow me inside. I’ve got no energy to be courteous this morning—er, afternoon.
“You okay, Miss Buchanan?” Gage asks.
Miss Buchanan?Since when…? Flopping onto my couch, I tug on the sweatshirt he lent me last night. “What’s going on?” Because this seems very official.
