Playing Along (Detectives in Love #4)

Chapter 1

Nora

I DON’T BELIEVE in fortune tellers. But as I step out of my office building late Wednesday night to discover that my car has a flat tire, my mind nonetheless immediately goes back to the words scrawled across the slip of paper from the fortune cookie I got with my Chinese takeout at lunch today: You will experience a grave misfortune.

“In bed,” my coworker Stella had added with a cackle; to which I’d replied, “If you’re referring to the fact that I’ll be losing one hour of sleep this weekend due to the horror that is Daylight Savings Time, then you’re correct. That is a grave misfortune in bed.”

Rather than laughing at my hilarity, Stella rolled her eyes and told me I needed to get myself a husband. This seems to be her answer to most problems though, as evidenced by the fact that she’s been married three times already and had a date with potential husband number four last night.

I, on the other hand, had a date with my knitting needles and an old episode of Psych last night. And guess what– it was lovely.

I shake these thoughts away as I survey my flat tire and debate what to do next. It’s late, almost nine o’clock, so the building is largely deserted. Other than my car, there are only two others still parked in the lot. One, I know, belongs to the nighttime security guard Frank. And the other one, the fancy schmancy BMW, belongs to my boss Ian Warfman.

He’s the reason I’m here so late in the first place. He announced earlier this week that he was looking for someone to take over the plastics circuit, and I want that route. Getting it would almost triple my sales potential. As any pharmaceutical sales rep will tell you, there’s a lot of money to be made in plastic surgery.

Unfortunately, having been working in the geriatric realm for the last few years, I know very little about the medications being sold to plastic surgeons. So I’m having to up my game, really show Ian that I can work hard enough to make up for my knowledge deficit.

But now I’m stuck here alone at night with a flat tire. I’m too tired to wait for AAA and the amount that I know how to put the spare on is zero. Wait, that’s not true; I do know that there’s something called a jack involved. Pretty sure I don’t have one, though.

A memory sharp and bitter strikes me: Jack, my Jack, pulling over to help me the last time I got a flat tire, almost five years ago.

It had been a crazy hot day, and I’d already been waiting for roadside assistance for almost an hour, so I decided I could figure this out on my own. Like Mia Hamm before me, anything a man can do I can do better, right?

Wrong.

I couldn’t even find the spare tire.

I was busy searching for it when Jack arrived on the scene, looking like he walked right out of my secret cowboy fantasies in his boots and hat.

When he asked if I needed a hand, I bit back my first response (yes, I need a hand: specifically yours on my waist, pulling me in for a kiss), in favor of asking him if he was planning on killing me and burying my body on the side of the road.

This got a good laugh out of him.

“Seeing as then I’d have to arrest myself, I’ll pass on that plan,” he replied. “I’m a homicide detective,” he added. Then he showed me his badge. I think I lost my heart to him that very moment.

And he never gave it back.

There’s something he should truly be arrested for.

The thieving jerk.

Back in my present day reality, I huff out a breath.

Forget Jack Reynolds. It’s been three years since he walked away from me, and what’s that saying? Good riddance to bad rubbish. Jack Reynolds certainly qualifies as bad rubbish. Hot bad rubbish, but bad rubbish all the same.

Okay, time to call an Uber and get the heck out of memory lane.

I fumble for my phone in my purse, managing to stab myself with my knitting needles in the process.

“Ouch!” I cry, withdrawing my hand and sucking in a breath when I see the pinprick of blood on my pointer finger. A pinprick that quickly morphs into a big, fat glob of blood. Honestly, I purchase extra sharp metal needles so I can make my sweet grandma a shawl for her birthday using lace wing yarn (arguably the softest yarn) and this is the thanks I get?

A profusely bleeding finger and a flat tire? Not that—I suppose—the flat tire has anything to do with the knitting needle. Although, one of these knitting needles surely could puncture a tire. That’s how sharp they are.

“Everything okay out here?” Ian’s familiar wheedling voice interrupts my wound tending (read: attempting to stop the bleeding with various items from my purse with little to no success, unless you count the fact that thus far I’ve managed to keep any blood from getting on my clothing. Instead most of it is on the parking lot floor.)

Sadly, this moment does not scream, “Look at this competent employee whom you should promote to the plastic surgery route!”

“I’m fine,” I hurry to assure Ian. “Just cut my finger. That’s all. Tiny little flesh wound. But ah-ha!” Finally my other hand emerges victorious from my purse with a bandaid. “Look at that, I’ll be patched up and good as new in two secs.”

“Okay, but what about your tire back there?” He points behind me. “Looks like it’s flat.”

“Oh.” I laugh shrilly, trying really hard to figure out a way to spin this situation into one where I don’t look like a damsel in distress. Damsels don’t get promoted. “Yes. It is flat, but don’t worry. I’m calling an Uber, and then I’ll call someone tomorrow to come fix it.”

“An Uber?” Ian frowns. “I have to be honest, Nora, I don’t like the idea of one of my female employees waiting for an Uber alone at night.”

Wow. His concern for my safety surprises me. It’s not that Ian is mean per se, but he’s definitely not the knight in shining armor type. He’s too busy working to get ahead to spend much time thinking about the welfare of others. “If something happened to you, that could be bad for the company, you know?” he adds.

Oh. Right. That response makes more sense.

“Don’t worry,” I say again, keeping my smile pasted on. “I’ll get in my car and lock all the doors. Besides, Frank is inside if I need him. That’s what nighttime security is for, right?”

Ian doesn’t look appeased by my response. If anything his frown only deepens.

“Perhaps I should give you a ride home, Nora,” he offers.

“Oh no.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to put you out like that.”

“I insist,” he says with the same tone of finality he uses in company meetings. The one that means, don’t argue with me you inconsequential peons.

“Um, okay then. Thank you.”

Mercifully I’ve managed to get the bandaid on my finger, so at least I’m able to simply hitch my purse higher up on my shoulder and follow him to his sleek car without fear of bleeding all over the leather interior.

Small wins.

He unlocks my door but doesn’t open it. Not that I need a man to open my door for me; but every time one doesn’t, it makes me think of Jack. He always opened doors for me then joked that it was just so he could check out my butt when I walked by.

He was such a flirt…and I loved it.

I never felt as good about myself as I did when I was dating Jack.

How pathetic is that?

I watch as Ian pauses in front of the car, fiddling with his phone screen then lifting it to his ear. He chats with whoever he just called for a few minutes before finally getting in.

“So, whereabouts are we headed?” he asks as he starts his car, smirking at the purr of the engine.

“I basically live straight north of here,” I tell him. “Turn left and just keep driving.” He nods and we set off.

I feel uncomfortable here in this tiny space with my boss, like I need to fill the silence, but also don’t want to risk saying anything that will negatively affect his opinion of me. So I make the safe play and compliment his car.

“This a beautiful car you’ve got yourself,” I say, running an appreciative hand over the leather.

“You like it, do you?” Ian grins over at me. “I knew you were a woman of good taste. Expensive taste.”

A new sense of unease twists my insides. I do not like the implication of his words or the way his gaze lingers on my bare legs.

He’s going to hit on me, which means bye-bye promotion. There's no way he’ll give me the job after I turn him down. The unfairness of the situation burns across my chest.

“Nora, you’re quite an ambitious woman,” Ian goes on, resting his elbow in the center console so that his fingertips are within touching distance of my legs. “I like that about you.”

Bile rises in my throat. This is happening. There’s no way around it. Unless…An idea born of desperation bursts out of me.

“Actually,” I interrupt him, “would you mind dropping me by my boyfriend’s place instead?”

“Boyfriend?” His attention fixates on the exact word I was hoping it would.

“Yes,” I chirp. “I have a boyfriend.”

“Ah, I see.” We’ve reached a red light and his gaze slides my way. I don’t like the hunger I see there. Instinctively, I reach for the handle of my door, but it’s locked. “And I have a wife,” he says smoothly. “But that’s never stopped me before when it comes to a beautiful woman.”

“I’d like to get out of the car now, Ian.” I fight to keep my voice even, to not let it give away my fear. He ignores me, proceeding through the now green light. I look wildly around at my surroundings. This stretch of road is mostly deserted. There are a few houses down a quiet lane in about half a mile. That’s where Jack lives.

Normally the fact that I have to drive by my ex’s neighborhood every day on the way to and from work is a sore point, but now it’s a beacon of hope that I cling to.

“My boyfriend lives right up here,” I try. “And he’s expecting me soon. I texted him.” I dig in my purse for my phone again, but still can’t find the dang thing. Instead my hands find the knitting needle.

It’s not much, but at least it’s something. I clutch it in my hand, fully prepared to use it as needed.

“Nora, don’t lie to me,” Ian chuckles. “You haven’t texted anybody. Frankly, I’m even doubting the boyfriend story at all. And I’m disappointed, Nora. I thought you’d see how this merger could benefit us both. I get to enjoy you, and you get that promotion you’ve been gunning for.”

Merger? That’s what he’s calling this pathetic attempt at getting sexual favors out of me? A fresh wave of anger temporarily tumbles over my panic and I spit out, “I would never sleep with someone to get ahead, you creep! Now let me out of this car right now or I’m going to stab you!” I brandish my knitting needle at him, which looks far less intimidating than I’d like given the intensity of the situation.

Which is probably why Ian just laughs again.

“Cute,” he drawls. A second later he yanks the wheel to the right, pulling the car over onto the side of the road. I don’t wait a second longer. I push at the lock, trying to get out of the car so I can make a run for it, but Ian grabs my arm, yanking me back from the door. His other hand slides roughly onto my thigh and fear spikes through me.

“Why are you fighting this, Nora?” he says as I struggle to fight him off. His breath is hot and disgusting in my face as his hand continues its perusal up my leg. His fingers are beneath my skirt now and panic is overtaking me, shutting off my ability to think clearly. I don’t know what to do. “You know you want this,” he taunts. “You wouldn’t have accepted a ride home from me if you didn’t.”

“You’re crazy!” I shout, attempting to slap him; but he catches my wrist with his other hand, and I cry out in pain. He’s so much bigger and stronger than me. There’s no way I can fight him off. He lunges at me, and there’s a split second where the moon lights up his face and I register the blankness of his eyes as he moves my way. I make one last desperate move, lifting the knitting needle and driving it as hard as I can into his body.

I feel it go through his skin, and a scream of horror bursts out of me. He’s on top of me now, his body jerking in an unnatural fashion. And there’s blood. So much blood.

I scream again; but then, quite suddenly, his body stills.

Cold seeps through my veins. He’s eerily still.

“Ian?” I say. Nothing. No response. “Ian!” I cry louder, this time attempting to shake him awake, to move him off of me. There must be a heck of a lot of adrenaline coursing through my veins, because I manage to push him off me. He slumps across the console, eyes wide open and staring at me.

That’s when I start screaming in one loud, endless stretch.

Because Ian Warfman is dead.

And I’m the one that killed him.