The Little Grave (Detective Amanda Steele)

Trent brought the car to a standstill for a stop sign, and she caught him looking at her.

“What?” she spat.

“Nothing.” He quickly looked away.

“Do you have any idea all that I’ve lost?” The question was out before she could reel it back. After all, it wasn’t like she wanted to talk about her husband, daughter, and unborn child. And she certainly didn’t want special treatment from Trent, so what was her aim?

He turned to her and kept them sitting at the sign.

“You can go.” She flailed a hand at the road.

He pressed the gas.

She shut her eyes; opened them. She could feel the bitterness inside of her taking on a life of its own, and it sought an audience, to be seen, heard, and acknowledged—as if by receiving such her feelings would be validated.

“My guess is you know Palmer wiped out my family because he was a selfish bastard who drank and got behind the wheel. Yet you haven’t offered any condolences or expressed any sympathy. You haven’t touched on it—at all.”

“I didn’t think that—”

“No, you know what? It’s fine. I shouldn’t have…” The bite had completely left her tone, but she couldn’t bring herself to continue. She felt ashamed for crossing the line. She had no right to expect anything from Trent, and she didn’t need a new friend. He was her partner—temporary partner, if she had her way. It would be best to remain detached. Do the job, call it a day, start over.

“I didn’t say anything about the accident because—”

“It’s fine. Really. I shouldn’t have brought it up. We have a job to do together, and that’s what we’ll do.”

Even if it kills me, she thought. Then again, she didn’t give a shit if it killed her because she was already dead inside.

Eleven

Trent hadn’t said anything else to Amanda the rest of the way to David Morgan’s apartment. It was located across town from the Nashes’ place. It might not have been a long drive, but it was tense. Maybe he didn’t know how to execute a conversation after her mini breakdown, and she still wasn’t doing so well. So much for keeping all drama out of the investigation. At least for the most part she’d bottled it up inside. She could even blame it on having been awake for hours on end. She’d kill for a coffee.

Trent pulled them into the driveway of the apartment building, parked in a visitor spot, and said, “From what I could find out about Morgan, he lives here alone. Apartment one-ten.”

She simply nodded, then got out of the car and led the way inside the building. She was the one to knock on David’s door and he answered in jogging pants and a T-shirt. He was in his late twenties and his hair was mussed and sticking up at the front. He rubbed his face, and said, “Yeah?”

“Detectives Steele and Stenson with PWCPD.” Amanda held up her badge. “Are you David Morgan?”

“That’s me, but—” He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure what you want with me.”

“Let us in and we’ll tell you.”

David danced his gaze over her, Trent, then back to her. “Sure, why not?” He stepped back and opened the door wide.

The apartment was compact, likely a one-bedroom unit, and the furnishings were the bare minimum. Right across from the door was the living room, which was a plain couch, a TV stand with a flatscreen sitting on it, and a sole coffee table. The place was tidy, but the air was stale.

“We’re with the Homicide unit,” she said, and David’s eyes snapped to hers. Now she had his attention. “A man was found dead at Denver’s about an hour before midnight.”

“Really? Oh, wow.” David blinked a few times, part shock, part his not being awake yet.

“His name was Chad Palmer, room ten,” she put out and watched him for a reaction.

David’s forehead pressed in thought, then smoothed out. “I know the guy… Well, I don’t know him, but I brought towels to his room during my shift on Saturday.”

“You did? The front desk is basically housekeeping too?” Amanda asked.

David smiled. “You’ve seen the place, right? My job is to tend to our customers’ needs as best as I can.”

“Okay,” she said. “What time did Palmer call you?”