"Was his DNA on the weapon?" Silence. "It's his gun right? He'd pulled the trigger right? Was Terrence Gresham's DNA on the weapon?" He ran a hand through his chestnut hair.
"Maybe you're right, maybe we shouldn't think about Monday, but remember o...
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Fourhundred reads for this little book !!!! I just wanted to thank everyone that bothers to give this book a chance.
★彡
"I guess we'll see what decision I make when the time comes won't we." Cohen chuckled but nodded. She would bend to his beckoning call—at least he liked to believe that she would.
"I always forget how smart you are," He chuckled harder. "And here I thought I had a reason to sign your sack letter." He shook his head, his grin long done away with. "Be careful what decisions you make, Gresham, you might be a partner, but you're not a name partner, you're not entitled to half the privileges you think you are." Cohen walked briskly out of her office after that, still shaking his head. Running a trembling hand through her hair, Christina thought of taking an early exit for the day, she clearly deserved it. And then she recalled, she would be back home if she left work any earlier.
Home.
Where her medical report lay atop her coffee table. It bothered her. But she couldn't bring herself to get rid of it.
She thought instead about the envelope underneath her name tag. She picked it up and opened it, glad for anything that would take her mind off her own apartment. Initially, she'd thought of it as an official wedding invitation from Grace Gresham, one that would fill Christina with glee.
It wasn't a wedding invitation.
There was nothing inside aside from a piece of paper. One with the sentence; I know who killed Lawrence Harrington. Scribbled on it. Her heart thundered like warning drums. She frowned, why on earth would whoever wrote this letter be addressing her? Why not Barron Harrington? Was this a message she was meant to pass to him?
She chugged it into her bag thinking nothing much of it.The last thing she needed was another thing to stress over. She instead thought of Terrence and the allegations detective Harrington had been building towards. A dead lead.
Detective Harrington's detachment from his emotions didn't go unnoticed to Christina. He was a man who pursued his career with his mind and body. This made him good, one of the best criminal detectives in the NYPD task force, he was a man who'd managed to ease through life without getting involved with the sentiments. His father had just passed and he spoke as though he'd read about Lawrence Harrington's murder off the internet like he was just the detective and not the only son of the late economic enthusiast.
Lawrence Harrington was the Donald Trump of his generation—without the cheap tan. He was a man with a strong mind and even stronger ideologies, he made allies in the business world and enemies in the real world. Social media and news outlets covered each scandal that would have his relationships trembling. When Lawrence would take in a new lover, the media's minds would shatter, when he's hauled to court for corruption, the media would be responsible for complete coverage. Lawrence did not live his life by the book, but he was close to his children, that wasn't forgone in his lavish lifestyle.
Christina was curious. She wanted to know what had urged this mysterious detective to confine himself in a life barren of feeling.
Could he be tired of getting affected by Lawrence Harrington's lifestyle? He was an officer on duty, a man without a relationship with the victims of his case, but what happens now that he's related to the murder victim? What happens now that he owes it to the murder victim, Lawrence Harrington, to shed due tears?
The thought of Barron Harrington shedding tears to Christina seemed highly unlikely, then again, she only knew him on a professional level whose to say he would ever let her blur the lines between his work and personal life.
This got her thinking about his personal life. She whirled her leather chair around gazing acutely at Central Park.
Radiant greens from trees pulsed back at her from fifteen feet above the ground. There were flowers, colorful and vast that concealed the short grass. She could imagine the breeze that would rustle the leaves and they would fall to the ground, it would be a warm breeze. Detective Harrington didn't seem like the kind of person interested in outdoor activities, it might even be a challenge if she were ever going to persuade him to join her for a long walk along the trees and ponds. He seemed like a man who'd sit cooped up in his office, at the weekend visit a gym. She wanted to see him again. At the gym, bare chest and glistening in a layer of perspiration, his breathing would be strained from his routine, but he would fix her with those granite eyes. She whirled her chair around and tugged her jacket closer and jabbed her hands in the pocket, her fingers curling around his business card. She let her eyes flutter shut. Calling him seemed amusing and far fetched to Christina. Like the idea of stroking a cat. She hates cats. What would she say?
That she wanted to see him? That someone had left her a letter claiming to know who killed his father? That he was getting nowhere by assuming Terrence had killed Lawrence?
It was a faded trail he would be smart to hop off of. Everything she considered, eluded the desperation of a woman who hadn't entertained the affection of a man in a year and a half, a woman whose hormones clung to the first brooding male to stir up something inside her in a year.
Nothing sat with her and so, she dropped the idea of calling him. She pulled her hands from her blazer pocket.
She didn't leave for her home early that day; if only she'd stepped out a minute earlier.
