Dead Pretty - Samantha Towle Page 0,26

didn’t answer. She seems concerned. He’s probably just sick, and that’s why he isn’t answering.

I told her not to worry.

Mike’s worked here longer than me. He’s quiet, like me. Keeps to himself.

Honestly, I don’t know him that well.

I hardly know anyone in this town.

Except for Jack.

Jack, who has been on my mind since yesterday.

Well, mainly, his reaction has been bothering me—or lack of a reaction to a woman being murdered in the building next to ours.

But I guess not everyone reacts the same, and it’s not like he knew the woman. Also, Jack must have seen a lot of death, being in the military.

That has to be it. There’s no way he already knew because he wouldn’t have asked me what was happening if he did.

And if he did know, then it would have been because he …

Nope. Not Jack.

I’m not that unlucky.

Right?

I place the last book on the pile. “All done,” I tell her.

The girl picks up the books and puts them in the canvas bag she’s carrying. “Thanks.” She gives me a smile.

I smile back. “Have a good day,” I tell her.

Look at me, being all pleasant.

Not that I would ever be an asshole to a kid.

I’m a lot of things, but I would never upset a child. Even I have my limits to my bitchiness.

Folding my arms on the counter, I rest against it, looking around the quiet place. People reading. Students working. Some on laptops, tapping away.

But no Jack.

I didn’t see him again after our run-in yesterday. Part of me had thought he might come to see me. Okay, I’d hoped he would come see me. But he didn’t.

Ugh. Why does everything in my brain automatically take me to Jack?

Because you’re seriously into him.

I don’t even get to process that thought further because the library doors open, bringing in two policemen.

Both in plain clothes.

How do I know they’re police?

Because I have spent enough time around the police to recognize them when I see them.

I watch them approach.

The taller of the two men is in his early thirties, I would say. Red hair, cut short. Smart suit. Clean-cut look to him. Handsome too. The other guy is older. Late forties, early fifties. Dark hair, peppered with gray, which looks like it hasn’t seen scissors in a while. Overgrown stubble on his face. Wrinkled suit.

They’re a stark contrast.

I straighten up as they come closer, trying to relax but failing.

As much as I respect the police and the job they do, I really don’t like seeing them. Especially not when a woman was discovered murdered yesterday.

God, what if they’re here to see me? My past might have brought them here.

But why would it? People don’t know who I am.

But they’re the police. Their job is to know who people are.

But why would they want to see me over the woman who was murdered yesterday? Because you’re linked to a serial killer.

And two other women have been murdered since I moved here.

Fuck.

The hairs on the nape of my neck rise. I swallow past my nerves.

“Officers,” I greet them with a forced smile.

The older of the two smiles back at me, and it’s not a smile that puts me at ease.

“I’m Detective Sparks,” he tells me. “This is Detective Peters.” He gestures to his partner. “We’re hoping you can help us.”

I swallow again. “With?”

Detective Sparks leans an arm on the desk. “We’re looking for someone who works here.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

My hands come together in front of me, fingers gripping together to stop them from trembling. “Wh-who?”

“A … Mr. Michael King.”

They’re here for Mike?

Relief seeps through me, relaxing me a touch. But not much. If the police are here for Mike, then it’s not for a good reason.

“Um, Mike’s not here. He didn’t show up for work today,” I tell them both.

“Have you heard from him at all today?” Detective Peters asks, speaking for the first time.

“No. He didn’t call in. Our manager, Margaret, tried calling his cell, but he didn’t answer.”

“Is your manager still here?” Detective Sparks asks.

“Yes.”

“Could you get her for us, please?” Detective Sparks says.

“Um, sure. One minute.”

I leave the main desk and walk through the back to Margaret’s office.

Her door’s open, like it always is.

I stop in the doorway. “Margaret, the police are here.”

Her surprised eyes lift to mine over her computer screen.

“The police?” She pushes her seat back, rising to stand.

“Yeah. They’re asking about Mike. I told them that he didn’t show up today and that you called him but got no answer. They asked me to