Chapter 23

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I sighed heavily and finished zipping up my skirt. I hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep the night before, as I sat up most of the night with Sam trying to do research on the house. We’d found little about it; no deaths, the land wasn’t sacred and the only other hiccup in the history of the house seemed to be the fact that the water main burst five years after it was built.

“Ready?” I heard Dean ask behind me.

I smoothed out my blouse and my skirt, and grabbed my purse. I made sure I had my badge and a handgun tucked into a holster at my side. Slipping on heels, I nearly fell over after I’d lost my balance. Dean reached out with one hand to steady me, and I threw him a grateful look. I didn’t need to take a faceplant into the cheap dresser.

“I’m okay,” I said with a small smile directed towards Dean.

“Ready to go?” I asked, peeking my head into Sam’s room. He was sitting at his computer still, dressed in jeans.

“You two go ahead. I’m gonna try to find the family of that old lady and see if they can tell me anything useful,” Sam said.

“Alright, well we’ll be back then,” Dean said. Sam nodded but didn’t look up from his computer.

It was a short drive back over to the police station, and the whole time my stomach was churning. My Spanish was a little rusty but I hoped it was enough to help this poor woman.

“Well look what the cat dragged in,” said sheriff Knightly when Dean and I entered the station. I sighed and tried my hardest not to roll my eyes. “What can I do for y’all?”

“We’re here to talk with the housekeeper,” I said to him.

“Are ya now? Well I’ll get her transported to an interrogation room but like I said last night-”

“I heard you then, sheriff. She doesn’t speak English. Which isn’t a problem since I happen to be able to speak some Spanish,” I said, my tone sickly sweet as I tried to hide the loathing I had for the man.

“Do ya now?” he asked, his expression turning sour.

I gave him a narrow-eyed smile and nodded. “You betcha.”

Dean cleared his throat and my head snapped in his direction. “Perhaps we could wait in the interrogation room while you transport the woman?”

The sheriff turned to one of the other men at the station. “Take Ms. Bacall and Mr. Hetfield to the interrogation room, Tom.”

“Yes sir,” the man, Tom, replied.

He led us to the room and it was another ten minutes before the woman was brought to us. She was escorted to her chair and I immediately stood to shake her hand before she could sit down.

“Hola, me llamo agente especial Lauren Bacall. ¿Como te llamas?” I said to her, trying to convey as much friendliness as I could in my voice.

The woman shyly took my hand and shook it. “Me llamo Rosita Lopez. Mucho gusto,” she said to me, all the while looking at her hands.

I sat down and she proceeded to do so as well. Dean looked at me expectantly as if I was supposed to provide a play-by-play translation.

“We’re just introducing ourselves,” I told him with a sigh. He nodded.

“¿Sabes por qué estás aquí?” I asked.

“No señora,” she replied quickly with a shake of her head.

“El hombre que trabajó para la mataron. ¿Sabe cómo o ​​por qué?” I asked gently.

“No. Sólo a limpiar la casa durante el día,” she assured me.

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