Page 6 of Cuffed By the Wolf

The door opens, and the sheriff walks in, closing it behind him.

“Good morning, Ms. Walker.”

The only thing good about this morning will be me walking out of this station. I keep that to myself. I have to be nice, or he’ll toss me back in that cell for a few more hours out of spite.

My cuffed wrists rest in my lap and I twist my fingers in an effort to remain calm. “Good morning, Sheriff Drake.” I lay the southern twang on thick with a big smile.

He chuckles and takes the seat across from me.

“What’s funny?”

“I can tell you wanted to say something a lot less polite than ‘good morning.’”

“Do you study all your prisoners this closely? Or just me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Ms. Walker. I’ve been doing this job a long time. I can read people.”

Hmm, he’s been doing this job a long time, huh? He looks like he’s in his early thirties.

“So then you already know I’m innocent.”

“I know you’re a menace to a shop full of antiques and two grown adults. Innocent’s a stretch.”

“That’s slander, Sheriff.”

“That’s an observation. There’s a difference.”

“Well, Sheriff, I’d love to hear what other observations you’ve made about me.” I bat my lashes, all southern sugar. “Go on. I can take it.”

He leans back, arms crossed and lets his gaze drag over me slow enough that it should be illegal on its own. “You talk when you’re nervous. You think faster than you should when you’re cornered. And you’ve got a mouth on you that’s going to get you into more trouble than one antique shop before you leave my town.”

“So you have been studying me.”

“I told you. I read people. Occupational hazard.”

“Uh-huh.” I place my cupped hands on the table. “And what did you read off Everett and Breann? Or did you save all your careful observations for me?”

Something almost like a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he wrestles it flat again. “I spoke to Everett and Breann last night.”

My eyes go wide. “Last night? While I was locked up ten feet away and nobody thought to wake me for it?”

Something flickers across his face — surprise, maybe, at the sharpness in my voice — before he smooths it back into flat professional calm.

“What happened yesterday?” he asks. “Walk me through it.”

I don’t have anything left to protect, so I lay it all out. “Someone stole a painting from my gallery, Mahogany Grace, back in Charleston. It’s worth two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and it belonged to a very prominent family that trusted me — specifically me — to sell it. Now it’s gone, and so is my reputation. A wire transfer connected to the sale traces back to the zip code of that shop I was in yesterday.”

I shake my head because I refuse to feel sorry for myself in front of this man.

“That zip code could belong to any shop on that street,” he says.

“So you think the kids’ clothing store two doors down accepted a quarter-million-dollar wire for a stolen painting?”

“I’m saying it doesn’t prove it came from that particular store. Could’ve been used as a front to throw you off the trail.”

A smile tugs at my mouth. “That’s actually a good point.”

Then it vanishes. “Why couldn’t Everett just be helpful instead of accusing me of trying to rob him?”