“You and I are gonna have a talk,” he murmurs. “Soon as we’re done here, the rules will be in full effect.”
I give him a tart look as I breeze in through the door he opens for me.
The Sheriff is waiting, worry etching a face that looks like it’s seen plenty of hard things in his fifty years, which doesn’t make the knot in my stomach any better.
“This way, Ma’am.”
Diesel’s crowding me as we cross the bullpen or whatever you call the room where the officers work, and I realize he’s doing it to keep people from seeing me.
Or is that look on his face a threat?
We all move into the corner office at the back of the building. It’s crammed with filing cabinets and a couple of plants that need water. It’s the first time I’ve ever been in a policestation, and I’m surprised how accurate TV was… if you’re into The Andy Griffith Show.
Where are the computers?
“Can I get you some water?” the officer asks.
“Please. My throat is rough from the fire… and yelling at him.” I throw a glare toward Diesel, who has somehow appointed himself in charge of closing all the window blinds for the corner office windows.
“You want any, Drake?” he asks, as if Diesel’s last name is familiar to him.
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
When we’re alone, Diesel moves to the spot beside the door, taking up a stance I’ve seen my brother use. It’s a military thing.
“Are you going to sit?”
“That’s not how this works. I’m not here to get comfortable.”
Apparently he isn't here to make me comfortable either. I blow out a breath, pinch the bridge of my nose and wait.
He stands behind me and breathes.
It’s not loud or unusual breathing, but I seem to be hardwired to every micro-gust of wind. Because my entire body is goosebumps. The cogs in my head are whirring at a dangerous pace, and the office feels smaller by the second.
My foggy mind starts to clear when the officer walks back into the room and plops a paper cup of water in front of me.
He takes a seat in his office chair, pulls out a notepad and makes no effort to hide his curiosity.
“Ms. Allison? Is it okay if I call you that?”
“No. Give her an alias,” Diesel orders from behind me, making my hairs stand on end.
An alias?
I swivel my head to look at him, but he and the Sheriff are having some kind of mind-meld interaction across the room.
“Okay, Ms. Smith,” the cop says, “Can you tell me about the truck fire?”
I’m more confused than ever when I turn back around in my seat. Before I can speak, I pick up the cup and down the whole cupful in one gulp.
God help me, I need some hydration for my brain because this giant asshole behind me is determined to break it.
“Well,” I say, realizing my voice has a smoky rasp to it thanks to the fire. “I was driving, and my truck seemed to have a drop in power. You know, you’re pressing the pedal and it’s not really going as fast as you expect.”
He nods, makes a note.
“Anyway, that’s when I saw the first flames. No…wait. I think I saw smoke first. Or maybe it was the smell. I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse me. A LOT has happened.” I swivel to throw another glare Diesel’s way.
