Each day, Calla and her fragile heart are that little bit closer to death... but before she goes she'll prove to the world the boy she loves is no murderer.
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With a life steeped in wealth and privilege, Calla Pierce should be protected from t...
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"You have fried egg in your beard."
Detective Harrison quickly wipes the slippery goo away with the back of his hand as he gobbles down another bite of his burger. My own remains half-eaten. Even if I had much of an appetite, I definitely don't now.
"Anyone ever tell you that the way you eat is revolting?" He chuckles, and I grimace as a combination of crumbs and spittle flies my way. I lean back in the booth and fold my arms across my chest. Rolling his eyes, he exhales and drops the remains of his breakfast burger on his plate.
"Anyone ever told you that you're exactly like your dad?"
"It's been mentioned. Why am I here?"
"You know why you're here... I'm buying you lunch." I snort and roll my eyes. He smiles and leans forward, pushing his plate to the side. He pauses dramatically, and I groan. "And we're going to have a little chat about Damien Steele."
"I'm guessing Dad doesn't know about this..."
He chortles and runs a hand through his beard.
"No, he doesn't. And I'm guessing you wouldn't want him to know you've been running around town playing detective."
I purse my lips, my body tensing, but I say nothing.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
He smirks.
"You finally found Jon, then? That's good, but... that condolence book of yours." He glances around in mock drama and I click my tongue. "Looks like you forgot it."
"It was a wasted journey, I admit. And I really do hate leaving the Village."
He sighs, and glances around at the half-empty American-style diner - all leather booths, distorting chrome and smeared plastic menus. Through the glass wall, the city is bustling with cars and office workers shopping on their lunch break. The playful amusement has dropped from his face, replaced by something almost intimidating.
"I tell you what. I'll stop playing games with you, and you can stop playing games with me. I'll be honest with you, and you be honest with me. This little chat is unofficial. No one needs to know."
I frown, unease settling across me. I don't this know man. And I certainly don't know if I can trust him. He stares at me hard and I feel like I'm melting into the booth.
"I have this theory. About you. You see, I've been speaking to a lot of people, trying to find Kincaid. Most of the time, the people of the Heights, they're not much for talking to the police. But me, I'm a local boy. So sometimes they open up."
I smile tightly and glance at the ceiling.
"Or they tell your arrogant ass what they think you want to know."
He chuckles.
"Possibly. But they told me something. Kincaid keeps to himself. He's a loner. Everyone knows who he is, but not much about him. Last year that changed, and they kept seeing him with a girl. She wasn't from the Heights. They didn't know her. They saw her going in and out of his flat a few times. Medium height, darkish hair, pale, maybe a year or two younger than him."
