She didn’t think it was any accident that the red-haired detective in the suit, tie and raincoat had waved his pen into her line of vision to force her attention back to him. “You were friends with Valeska Gallagher and Gretchen Cosgrove, weren’t you?”
He wanted to know about two murdered friends?
Stay in the moment, Charlotte. Engage.
But she couldn’t do it alone. She clicked her tongue. “Max. Up here.”
Her companion leaped from the damp pavement into the back of the ambulance and crawled up onto the low bed where she sat.
“I went to school with Val and Gretchen.” And Audrey Kline and a host of other overachievers at the Sterling Academy. She knew what the detective was asking. “The Rich Girl Killer doesn’t murder sweet old men. And no, I haven’t received any threatening letters. Richard’s killer called me on my phone.” She nodded at the plastic evidence bag with her cell sealed inside that Detective Montgomery held. “I think he was trying to find out where I was. He wanted to scare me into revealing myself. He must have read about my kidnapping. He knew …”
She dipped her face down to Max’s and welcomed the comforting lick on her jaw.
“Miss Mayweather,” one of the EMTs protested the muddy paw prints on the crisp white sheet, “that’s hardly sanitary.”
The other poked the stethoscope at her again. “If you work with us, this will only take a few minutes longer. Since you refuse to go to the hospital, your father asked us to give you a thorough once-over.”
He pulled at Max’s collar. She pulled back. “I have a doctor who comes to the house when I need one. I’m fine.”
“Miss Mayweather?” The EMT shooed Max outside when she turned her attention back to the detective.
“I’ve answered enough, Detective Montgomery. I need to go home.”
With a nod, he acknowledged the blatant hint to leave her alone, even though his faintly accented voice never wavered from its cool, calm and collected tone. “How can you be certain it was Mr. Eames’s killer who called you?”
“I know.”
“Would you care to elaborate on how you know that?”
Charlotte smoothed a damp kink of hair off her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “Would I care …?”
Her ear.
Oh, God.
Charlotte’s heart stopped for a split second then raced into overdrive. “Where’s my earring?” She tugged at the exposed lobe, scarred and rebuilt from a graft of skin taken from her scalp. Hiding the disfiguring reminder with her hand, she whirled from one EMT to the next. “Did you take my earring? It’s a white-enamel daisy. Did you take it?”
She recognized that knowing look exchanged between the two men. “Ma’am, we don’t have your earring.”
Right. She’d probably lost the keepsake from her mother in the struggle with Officer Jones. She swung her legs off the bed, but strong hands caught her and pulled her back onto the gurney.
“Max? I need Max.” The EMT gently took her shoulder and slipped the chilled stethoscope against her skin. Charlotte twisted away.
“We can back-trace the number off your phone.”
“To Richard’s.” She swung her gaze back to Spencer Montgomery. “But you didn’t find his cell, did you? I’m telling you the killer took it.” She brushed her curls back over her ear to hide the scar. “I want to look for my earring.”
“You think the killer took your earring? The Rich Girl Killer takes souvenirs. Did you see him?”
“No. I just …” The panic was taking hold again. She had no keepsake to hide behind, no companion to focus on and keep her thoughts clear.
“Miss Mayweather?” The EMT who’d checked her pupils and pulse dabbed something cold and wet against her arm. When she saw the syringe on the bench beside him, she knocked the alcohol wipe away.
“I don’t want any drugs.” She put her fingers to her teeth and whistled loudly enough for all three men to pull back for a moment. “Come here, boy.”
But the respite was brief.
“Ma’am, clearly you’re upset by tonight’s events. I need to give you something to calm you. Your heart’s racing. We’re worried about shock.” Max had jumped back inside the ambulance, but the EMT was blocking him from climbing onto the gurney with her. Oh, great. The whistle had caught her dad’s attention, too. He was watching her from his press interview, clearly concerned. “Just let me go home. Please.”
“We need to remove the dog.”
“One more question,” Detective Montgomery prodded. “Can you be certain it wasn’t your chauffeur calling for help? Perhaps a dying utterance?”
“No!”
“Move it, Fido.”
“Max—”
“I need you to lie down.”
“Could you identify the voice?”
“No. Please don’t.” Her mind was spinning, her heart racing. She wanted Max.
“Lie down.”
“… hear a gunshot?”
What happened to one more question?
“Give her the sedative.”
“I don’t want …”
“… identify the killer?”
“Max?”
“The dog stays.” The deep-pitched voice silenced the madness, and everything inside Charlotte went suddenly, blessedly still.
The only thing Charlotte could hear was the rain dribbling on the asphalt. The only thing she could see were the broad shoulders of Trip Jones filling the opening at the back of the ambulance.
He looked down at the detective beside him. “This interview is over.”
Charlotte’s attention danced down to the bandage on his arm, up to the tanned angles of his exposed biceps and triceps. She read the white SWAT emblazoned across his vest, took quick note of the gun and badge on his belt. But in a matter of seconds, before the protests of the three men around her started in, her gaze went back to Trip’s grizzled jaw and the green-gold eyes looking down at her with a glimmer of something like intimate knowledge and understanding shining there.
“You’re a crazy woman, all right. And I’m not sure I fully understand why. But …” He picked up Max in his arms and set him squarely in her lap. “The dog stays with her.”
“Officer, we can’t—”
“He’s
