"Same way Mrs. Holloway did, I expect," I say with a nonchalant shrug.
Holt smirks again. He doesn't believe me, but I don’t really care what he thinks.
When the briefing finally breaks up, and the room empties into the corridor, I take a small detour past the break room with my coffee cup in hand. Away from the din of the main floor, I suck in a few deep breaths to calm my rattled nerves.
Zara’s home was broken into. She must be so scared.
Pulling up the name I want on my phone, I’m about to press call when my gaze lands on the pink box of donuts that’s on the counter where Holt leaves them every Monday. I spot his favourite, front and centre in the box, and bite my lip, glancing around to make sure nobody’s coming.
Then I pick up the saltshaker by the toaster and shake a generous, even layer over the top donut, using my finger to really smear it on. Screwing the lid back on, feeling both petty andproud as punch of myself, I replace the shaker exactly where I found it.
Screw him.
Ducking outside through the back door and hustling around the corner where nobody will hear me, I stab at Beau's name and pace, waiting for the call to connect.
Instead, it rings four times before going to voicemail.
Did he just decline my call?
His recorded message is brief, just his name and a request to leave a message after the tone, delivered in that deep voice that still does things to my insides. But hearing it now,knowing that he picked up Zara and didn't bother telling me has me ready to explode.
Who does he think he is?
I leave a relatively polite if not blunt message. "It's Harris. I heard about Zara. Call me back."
Taking a breath, I slip back inside and call him again before I even reach my desk. This time, it goes to voicemail instantly. I stop in my tracks and stare at the phone, jaw clenched so hard, my back teeth ache.
He turned it off.
That arrogant prick turned his phone off despite knowing this is a police investigation, and that I'm going to need to speak to her.
I clench my fists and bite back the scream of frustration that’s desperate to burst out of me.
FUCK.
I gave Zara Beau's number because I couldn't be in two places at once, not so he could take over my case and shut me out.
Well, that's not happening.
Grabbing my keys, I hurry past my desk, ignoring my colleagues' puzzled looks, and stomp straight out the front door.
If he won't answer the phone, he'll have to deal with me face to face.
14
BEAU
The front door of my office slams open hard enough to rattle the framed PI license on the wall.
Barging in without even checking to see if I have company, Lisa Harris is standing in my doorway before I've even finished pushing back from the desk.
There's now a chunk of white that’s stuck on the door handle where it's chipped the paint, and my eyes follow the plaster dust as it floats to the floor, dancing in the beam of sunlight streaming in through the window over my head.
I've been waiting for her since the second I turned off my phone.
"Where is she?" she demands, red hair pulled back in a tight ponytail that accentuates her high cheekbones and those big, bright eyes.
Pinned to the lapel of her jacket is a small dark-blue enamel pin. I clock it without comment. My own identical pin is sitting unopened in a box on the corner of my desk.
