Hell Without You

Chapter 15

"I'm sorry." Clementine gripped her phone, letting the warm plastic press into her cheek as she leaned with an elbow on the kitchen table. "Yes, I understand."

And the conversation was over. She placed her phone in the middle of the table, the ringer volume on high, just in case.

Maybe there would be a call from Donovan, or a call from the police. Maybe the colossal mistake that had landed him in jail would be resolved quickly on its own. Until then, she'd have to play detective. The fact that she'd just lost her new job hardly mattered – she'd expected to be replaced when she'd called in to let them know that she wouldn't be showing up to work today or any other day until an emergency personal situation was resolved. You just didn't get to make calls like that after one day of work.

What was the loss of her position at Kellogg-Hart compared to the loss of Donovan? The thought of spending her days in an office while he sat in a jail cell was unbearable. She wouldn't – couldn't – focus on anything else until he was free.

Brewing a quarter of a pot of coffee – she would've made at least half a pot if Donovan had been there – she proceeded to clean up the kitchen. A pot of spaghetti noodles and a pan full of sauce sat cold and congealed on the stove – she'd discovered the abandoned meal when she'd finally left the police station and returned to the house. How Donovan had managed to cook the meal with one arm she didn't know, but pressure stung the backs of her eyes as she scraped the food into the trash.

After rinsing the pans and wiping the stove clean, the coffee still wasn't done, so she pulled on her shoes and arranged her hastily-brushed hair into a ponytail. As soon as she had a cup of coffee – something told her she'd need the energy – she'd get started.

Too bad all she knew about solving crimes was what she'd picked up watching the occasional police or detective show – so basically, nothing at all. It wasn't like TV networks were known for dazzling viewers with realism. Shoving thoughts of Hollywood detectives from her mind, she tried to think logically.

She'd spoken to Detective Wagner again before finally leaving the police station the night before, and he'd informed her that the murder weapon had been a tire iron. The murderer – allegedly Donovan – had struck Trevor several times across the chest and head, killing him with blunt force trauma to the skull.

The tool had been discovered in the field that stretched behind the ditch Trevor's body had been left in. Supposedly, the murderer had dumped Trevor's corpse and then thrown the murder weapon as far as he could, out into the field where it had initially remained undiscovered in the tall grass, covered in prints at one end and blood at the other.

Donovan had never been fingerprinted by the police, but like all military recruits, his fingerprints were on file with the government and the police had accessed that data to compare after discovering the weapon.

Clementine had asked whether anyone else's prints had been on the weapon, whether it might have been stolen from his garage.

According to the police, there had been no other prints and there were no reports of a break-in or theft at the garage.

Maybe there had been no crime reports, but that didn't mean someone hadn't taken the tire iron, which was exactly why as soon as Clementine finished a breakfast of coffee and cream, she left the house, heading straight for the garage.

Mike was there, as she'd hoped he'd be. When she walked in, he was just emerging from his paint booth. When he saw her he signaled to her, and ten minutes later he joined her by the front desk. No one else was present in the shop – they had total privacy.

"Mike, I need to talk to you about something."

He nodded, his green eyes sober beneath his close-cropped dirty blond hair. He was young – maybe a couple years older than her, at most. She barely knew him, but she liked him, if only because she knew he'd helped out Donovan when he'd needed it, like the night Donovan had gone drinking and he'd given him a ride home, and when he'd driven him to the airport.