Page 90 of Sweet Oblivion

“Ms. Rousseau. I was hoping we could talk.”

My fingers tighten around the stems I’m holding. The thorns bite into my skin until a single drop of blood hits the counter.

“I’m working, detective. I’m sure if you call Olivia St. James, she could set up a time for us to meet again.”

His gaze swings around the shop, and a chill skirts down my spine.

Genevieve is delivering the rehearsal dinner flowers to the vineyard.

And I’m suddenly aware of just how alone we are.

“Doesn’t look like I’m interrupting much. I don’t see anyone knocking down the door.”

“It’s the end of the day,” I murmur defensively. “We’re closing soon.” My eyes move to the shearing scissors on the edge of the counter, already plotting my defense if this man tries anything. Some things are so ingrained in you, they never go away. Running away might not be an option, but there’s a door leading to the parking lot through the back of the shop. And my cell phone is in my back pocket. My guard is up, and I’m not even a little bit ashamed to admit it.

Nothing about this feels right.

“I’d like to go over your statement again, Ms. Rousseau.” He shifts his weight and rests his hand on his gun.

“Why?” I ask, knowing not a word of what I said has changed.

“Because the man you identified as your attacker is dead, Delaney.”

I force my face to stay calm while I fall apart inside. “I heard.”

Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t sound so cold.

I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to do.

What would Olivia say?

“Did you?” he pushes. Waiting. For what, though? A crack in the story? A mistake? “Walk me through that night.”

“I already told you?—”

“Walk me through it again.” His voice is sharp and honestly, fucking frightening.

It doesn’t rise, but it doesn’t leave room for argument either.

“I have to leave, detective. I’m going to be late to my own rehearsal dinner. If you’d like to discuss this further, I’d be happy to come to the station with my attorney.” There. That’s what Liv would want me to do.

“You go ahead and do that then, Ms. Rousseau.” He slides a business card across the counter, like I don’t know how to get hold of him if I want to.

“Why are you doing this? I’m the victim. Ryker saved my life. Why are you here?” I ask before I think better of it.

“It’s all a little too convenient, if you ask me.” He flips the toothpick in his mouth, smiling. “But that’s the funny thing about self-defense. It’s harder to disprove when the other guy can’t tell his side of the story.”

“There was no side, detective,” I spit like venom is falling from my lips. “He attacked me. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t want it. I didn’t allow it. I said no. So he tried to choke me to death so he could rape me. He was a bad man, detective. The worst kind of bad man. The kind who thought the law didn’t apply to him.”

“According to you,” Brooks counters, slowly, and I see red.

I slap my hand against the counter, ignoring the way Tori jumps. “He. Attacked. Me. Pull the cameras from West End’s parking lot. Do your goddamned job. It will all be on film. The worst night of my life is there for you to see. And it will back up everything I told you.”

The fucker doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong.” He watches a little too closely. “I’m saying it’s my job to make sure the truth comes out. And I don’t know whether we’ve found that yet.”

“Watch the tapes,” I demand, a tear falling from the corner of my eye. “Watch the way he beat me.” I keep my head up and shoulders back. I will not cower. “Watch them. Do your job. Ryker didn’t do anything but defend me. We didn’t do anything wrong.”