The General (Professionals 4)

Again, he didn’t accept my gratitude, brushed it off, moved right past it.

“Now, we will be there with you until the body is buried and the case goes cold.”

“I told the detective that I would be hiring private security,” I told him, figuring it was giving him an excuse to be around, not sneak in and out the back door like a criminal.

“Good. That works. And we are private security. You know, on the books. In reality, we don’t really do that. But we do use it for show. This is my case seeing as Quin is out of the country. But you will see other faces too. Namely Lincoln and Finn. Maybe Gunner if we are short-staffed. And then there will be Miller who can join you in case you have ladies-only lunches or a spa thing or such to do. We will have you covered no matter what if or when the time comes. And, just to make this clear, the fee is flat. We don’t charge more if this goes for several weeks. We charge by difficulty, not duration.”

“Okay. I understand.”

“And we know that the financial thing is likely delicate for a while, so we won’t be pressing you to pay until it is safe to do so.”

“Okay,” I agreed, taking a sip of my tea.

“Do you have any questions?”

I couldn’t come up with many, making me feel inept, like maybe I should have had a dozen of them prepared.

“How long do you think it would be? For the case to go cold, I mean.”

“Depends a bit on the senator really. How hard he pushes for a suspect. But there is nothing to go on. Even if they did haul someone in, and that is the worst-case scenario, they don’t have any proof to charge anyone on. Actually. We do have one loose end.” My stomach tightened hard at that, knowing what loose ends could mean in a situation like this. “Your nightie,” he clarified, making my brows draw together.

“What about it?”

“I’m just worried about a little GSR. Gunshot residue,” he clarified. “If a finger ever did get pointed at you – and I think that is a very long shot – but if, that nightie might have evidence on it. I want you, before you go to bed, to soak it in the tub. Throw some cleaner in there, then drain it out and rinse it with your bath shit. The vanilla stuff. Then leave it there as a sopping, bloodstained mess. Like you had climbed in the bath in it because you were so out of your mind over the situation. In fact, leave everything a little messy right now. More than you may normally. If the staff ever gets questioned, you will be a genuinely absentminded, grief-stricken wife. You can go as far as to sneak some snacks into your nightstand or something, then refuse meals, say you aren’t hungry. All that stuff reinforces your grief.”

“I can do that,” I agreed.

“I think it will genuinely be just a couple of weeks, Mrs. Ericsson.”

“Jenny,” I corrected, cringing at the title. “Not Jen,” I added, knowing there was a bit of malice in my voice, and not caring. Jen was what Teddy called me. And Teddy alone. I personally hated it. And in public, I was always introduced as Jennifer, so that was what the whole social circle called me, never getting close enough – because Teddy wouldn’t allow it – to cutesy or cut short my name. But me, as a girl, as a whole person I once got to be before Teddy started whittling pieces of me away all these years, she used to like to be called Jenny.

“Jenny,” he agreed, and the name slipped deliciously off his lips. Too deliciously. The kind of way that sent shivers across a woman’s skin.

“And you’re Smith.” It was a statement, but also an invitation. To give me more. Give me a first name. Because there was no way Smith was his first name.

But he declined to give me more.

“Yep.”

“So… now what? Are you leaving?” I asked, and something within me screamed No!

“Ah. I think, just for appearances’ sake, I should hang here in case the detectives show back up. Since you said you’d be calling in security. It wouldn’t look right that you wouldn’t do it. Or that you would settle for waiting for it.”

“Because a woman who was beaten by a man who murdered her husband wouldn’t feel safe all alone in the house it happened in.” I was getting the hang of this. And I was pretty sure that was not something I should have been proud of. But there was no stopping it. I felt pride. For not being a handful. For not being needy and pathetic and hysterical.

“Exactly.”

“There is a guest room upstairs,” I offered. “Not the pink room. I mean, if you want that one, you are free to use it. That is…”