The Real Werewives of Vampire County - By Alexandra Ivy Page 0,78
family room and he turned on the ginormous TV while we made ourselves comfy on the couch. He pulled me into the crook of his arm as he channel-surfed. “What are you in the mood for?” he asked, blazing through the hundreds of channels in his satellite TV lineup.
“Actually, I’d like to talk.”
Click. The TV went black.
“Okay.” He set the remote down. “About what?”
“Your neighbors.”
His brows rose to the top of his forehead. “What happened this morning? Did they say something to you?”
“Something about what?” I asked.
“About Michelle.”
Truth? Or lie?
I didn’t move three hundred miles to live with a man I couldn’t trust. I had to hear his side of the story. I owed him that much ... didn’t I?
“Yes. They told me... .” Shit, this was rough. “They said... .”
“I killed Michelle,” he finished for me. “Is that what they said?”
I nodded.
His lips thinned. “What else did they tell you?”
“They said the case is still open.”
He shoved his fingers through his hair. He stared down at the floor. He sighed. He did all the things a man who is furious, but who doesn’t want to look angry, does. His jaw tensed. “That’s not true. I have an alibi. The case was closed.” He looked at me. “But you don’t know what to believe, do you? You’re scared.”
I hated feeling this way, I really did. “A little.”
“I’ll set up a meeting with the detective tomorrow. He’ll answer all your questions. Until you know where you stand”—he stood, turned stiffly away—“I’ll keep my distance. I can stay at the office.”
Oh shit. “Jon, I’m sorry. Please don’t—”
“Don’t be sorry. This isn’t your fault.” His jaw was clenched so tightly, the column of his neck protruded. “A word of advice. You might want to check out those new friends of yours, too, before you believe everything they tell you. They might not be killers, but they aren’t perfect. Nobody is.”
He left.
CHAPTER 4
“Hello, Miss Price, Jon Stewart said you needed to speak with me?” The police officer offered a hand. He wasn’t wearing a uniform. Worn jeans. T-shirt with an Ann Arbor Police Department logo printed on the left chest. If I had to guess, I’d say he was in his forties. But he was built like a guy twenty years younger. “Detective Foster.” He motioned through a doorway. “How about we go somewhere quiet?”
“That would be nice.” I followed Detective Foster down a white-walled corridor and into a small room furnished with a table and a couple of chairs. It was small. Cramped. Smelled like stale smoke and sweat. The overhead fluorescent light fixture flickered. At the detective’s invitation, I sat in one of the metal and plastic chairs.
He took the chair opposite me, leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tabletop. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“First, I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.”
“Sure. Not a problem.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s a holiday. I’m off the clock. Just dropped in to take care of a few things.”
“It’s about Michelle Stewart’s death.”
“Yeah. Stewart said you had some questions.”
“I read an old article in a newspaper that suggested her death might not have been a suicide.”
The detective didn’t respond right away, which made me wonder whether he’d tell me the truth or not. To agree to meet with me like this, at the drop of a hat, had to mean something. Did he owe Jon a favor? Were they old friends? Had he been instrumental in getting Jon off the hook? Would my poking around kick up a hornet’s nest? “That article was partially right. There was reason to suspect her death wasn’t a suicide.”
“Such as?”
“Sorry, I can’t give you that information.”
“Is the case still open, then?”
“It is. But Jon’s been cleared. He had a rock-solid alibi.”
Cleared.
I was almost afraid to believe what the detective was saying. I heard myself make a little squeaking noise. “You’re sure he’s innocent?”
“Absolutely. He was seen in a public place by several people, including a very reliable witness, at the time of her death. There is absolutely no way he could have killed his wife.”
A nervous chuckle bubbled up my throat. I couldn’t hold it back. “You have no idea how worried I was.”
“I understand.” He glanced at his watch again. “Any other questions?”
I bolted from my chair. “I’ve taken enough of your time. I’m sure you have more important things to do than to reassure me that I wasn’t about to marry a murderer.”
Foster’s smile was genuine. “No problem.” He stood,