The Little Grave (Detective Amanda Steele)

Amanda held the cup out of reach. “Now, there’s no need to do that. And thank you.”

“I’m sorry about before. I shouldn’t have implied—”

“Just forget it.” Amanda flipped back the tab on the lid and took a sip. Perfect drinking temperature.

“So what way are you leaning? Do you think he was murdered?” Becky nodded toward the motel room.

“Too soon to say, but there are things standing out to me. Speaking of, did you put Palmer’s wallet on the table or was it there?”

“Sergeant Greer took it out to confirm identity. I didn’t need it to.”

Amanda nodded.

“I see that Trent’s arrived,” Becky said.

“Yep.” She took another drink of her coffee. It was exactly what she needed right now. “Should be fun,” she added, with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

“Trent’s a good guy. He’ll—”

“Did I just hear ‘Trent’s a good guy’?” He came out of the room.

Amanda regarded him. “That was quick.”

“I’ll revisit. I like to take it in, process it in my mind for a bit, then revisit.”

“Huh. First day out and you’ve already got a method.” Snarky and uncalled for, and it failed to garner any reaction. Disappointing.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Becky gave Amanda a pleading look to give Trent a chance.

“So, what were your first impressions?” Trent extended the booties to Amanda and she dismissed him with a wave.

“Keep ’em.” She started walking toward the motel office. “We’ll chat later. Right now, we’re going to speak to Ronnie Flynn. He’s the manager here and who found Palmer.”

“Sure. Sounds good.”

Amanda stopped walking and spun. He was still moving, and she bumped her cup against his chest, spilling some coffee on his coat.

He pulled a tissue from a pocket and wiped at the mess. She’d apologize but it would weaken her position.

“You say ‘sounds good’ like this is an exciting evening out for you. Someone died,” she ground out. It was hypocritical given how little she felt for the deceased, and she remembered how at the start of her career in Homicide, murder cases had got her blood pumping and her adrenaline rushing.

“I-I know that,” Trent stuttered and stuffed the tissues back in a pocket.

She clamped her mouth shut. She’d been prepared for Trent to spout off something smart-ass, maybe bring up her connection with Palmer; as a local he had to know the history there. She resumed walking.

“I didn’t mean anything by what I said.” Trent sounded apologetic, but there was also a note of confusion in his tone. He likely didn’t understand her strong reaction.

But unless a person had suffered the loss she had, how could anyone appreciate what she had gone through—was going through? The man who had birthed her living nightmare was back. Dead, but no less real. And as much as she looke

d to this case to help her heal, it just may take her down if she wasn’t careful. That’s why she had to stay focused and serious.

“Let’s just talk to the manager.” She got the door for the motel office for herself and didn’t bother holding it for Trent. It wasn’t personal—at least not yet—but partnerships had a way of morphing into that territory if the boundaries weren’t clearly defined from the start. And she wasn’t about to let her wall down for one second.

Five

Amanda stepped into the motel office, noticing the security camera mounted outside next to the door. A chime sounded and Officer Deacon got up from where he’d been seated next to a forty-something male with greasy dark hair and a pockmarked face.

The fluorescent lights were harsh and assaulting, as was the dilapidated Christmas tree drooping in the corner; its fake branches finished with the season and some of its baubles reaching the floor. The lights were also unplugged, making it look that much more depressing.