“I’m sorry. Abs, this is so messed up. Dr.Moorehead is dead.”
“What? Your boss?”
“Yeah.”
“What the hell happened?”
“It’s a long story.” Ivy choked up. “Can you come get me? I need my car again.”
“Where are you?”
“Thomas Clarke Historical House.”
“Thewhat?”
“Just put it in the GPS. Please—hurry.”
Vaughn approached. The detective had just finished an intense conversation—though “conversation” was probably too soft a word for the tongue-lashing he’d received—and looked spent.
“I’m going to need that note,” he said. Ivy gladly handed over the letter she’d found on Dr.Moorehead’s desk. “And the captain wants you to come back in and give another statement.”
“Another?” Ivy’s voice had degenerated into a whine.
“I’m sorry. I tried to convince the captain to let you give that statement tomorrow, but he’s insisting.”
“Now? My friend is on her way to pick me up.”
Vaughn looked up. Squinted at her.
“The one from the bar?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s good... that’s good.” He nodded to himself. “She can give a statement, too.”
“Vaughn, am I going to be okay?”
A loaded question.
Okay after all the fucked-up shit that had happened to her over the past two days? Or okay after the ‘statement?’ If it was anything like that last ‘statement’ she’d given, Ivy was beginning to consider the word a euphemism for interrogation.
“Yes.”
Unsure.
For a moment, it appeared as if Vaughn wanted to hug her—which Ivy would have leaned into—but he pulled back. Probably for the best. She couldn’t get involved with a cop, not in that way. Not inanyway.
“Okay,” Ivy said, mostly to herself.
“Just...” Vaughn trailed off.
“Just what?”
“Just tell them what happened. Keep it short, simple.”
“I will.”
Ivy was so tired that even offering a conciliatory smile proved impossible.
