Cast the First Stone (The True Lies of Rembrandt Stone 1)

“Like a wart?” She walked into the dark room, and he followed. But she heard a huff that sounded a lot like a chuckle.

She flicked on the purple light, waited for him to close the door, then took the film picker and tugged the film from the cartridge. “This shouldn’t take too long. We just got a new developing machine.”

He stood with his back to the door, blocking it, as if afraid someone might come in. “There’s a little light that tells people we’re in here. And it locks from the inside.”

He’d taken on a purply hue, looking downright sinister standing there.

“So, what’s your story, Inspector?” She cut the film square, then taped it to a plastic leader card.

“I wrote my story,” he said. “Didn’t you read it?”

Every page, cover to cover. “Naw. I’m not a reader.”

Silence and when she glanced at him, one side of his mouth had quirked up. “Mmmhmm.”

She frowned. “Okay. I read parts. I like the story of how you found the murderer of the old dentist through the killer’s bite marks.”

“Yeah. It was a burglary gone wrong. The dentist surprised the perp, they got into a struggle, and he bit the dentist. We nailed the guy from the bite marks on the dentist’s arm—right there in his files.”

“Clever.” She printed out a sticker with the identification marker and pasted it to the film.

“Thanks.”

“I’m surprised how many cases you solved your rookie year, actually. You’re like a dog with a bone.”

He laughed then, a rumble that slid under her skin, sank into her soul.

“What?” She opened the machine and stuck the leader card in.

“Nothing.” He had folded his arms, was shaking his head, still wearing a slight smile. Apparently laughing at his own private joke.

“Your book didn’t say why you joined the force.”

She didn’t even have to see it. She felt it. A wall going up. She’d probed too far. His smile faded as the machine began processing the film. He ducked his head, his hands going to his pockets.

Silence labored between them as she stared at the machine. Watching the developer phase, the bleaching, then fixing, then washing.

She fully expected a full-out stiff arm, a shutdown of their conversation but after a long, deep sigh, Rembrandt Stone began speaking softly.

“When I was twelve, my brother was kidnapped while we were out riding our bikes. They…they think they’ve just found his body. It’s been sixteen years. Not knowing.”

Everything shut down with his words, and she stared at him. “Oh my.”

He looked up, met her eyes, a sorrow in them despite the darkness that reached inside, unsettled her.

“I can’t get past the idea I could have stopped it. Mickey was way behind me, around a bend in the road, and I saw this white van drive by. We were on a remote dirt road—no reason for that van to be there, and I had this weird sting in my gut. When I discovered he wasn’t following, I went back to find him and found his bike on the side of the road. He’d vanished.”

“The police—?”

“Scoured the area for days, weeks. My parents never stopped looking.” He drew in a breath, and seemed to be about to add more, but then simply shrugged and looked away.

“I’m so sorry, Inspector.”

&n

bsp; “Rem,” he said, looking up. “I’d like us to be friends.”

Oh, and what was she supposed to do with that? Because she’d never met a man who cut right past the charades and showed up with the truth. A man without games or a hidden agenda, no secrets.