“You okay?” Smith asked him.
“I’ll be fine.” Elliot’s answer was short, and I could tell he was upset—about his injuries, Smith’s question, the fact that two men had broken into the house, about the shattered door that was letting in cold air… Maybe all of those things. God knew they were all on my list.
I tightened my arms around him, and I felt him shudder a little.
Smith glanced over at the open doorway, which was letting in a lot of cold air. I was trying not to shiver. “Is there somewhere warmer where I can take your statement?” he asked.
Elliot nodded once, then limped away from me. That was when I noticed that he’d shifted back to fully human—maybe that had been the reason for what felt like a shiver in my arms.
He led the way past the entry and down the hall into the room that had been his mom’s studio. One whole wall was hung with mats and woven hangings, and there were finished baskets on most of the shelves. There were also books everywhere—many of them on native plants, healing practices, and history. In the center of the room was a small round table with four compact leather armchairs around it.
Elliot gestured with his good arm for Smith to take one of them, and we joined him. I resisted the urge to reach out to put a hand on Elliot—his arm, his thigh, anywhere. He was holding himself stiffly, and I didn’t think he’d appreciate it, even though my skin itched with the need to touch him.
Smith pulled out his phone and brought up a recording app. “Do you mind?” he asked Elliot, who shook his head.
“Gale?” came Lacy’s voice from by the door, causing Elliot to twitch.
“Seth, would you?—”
“Yeah.” I pushed myself to standing, not bothering to let him finish. I was antsy and irritable, and anything would be better than sitting and trying not to crawl out of my own skin, both literally and figuratively.
I didn’t look at Elliot, mostly because I was afraid he was either going to be mad at me or upset that I was leaving, and I didn’t think I could tolerate either option. It was probably better for me not to be a part of a police interview, anyway. Not if my hands had been anywhere near the evidence used on the case—which they had been.
I went and met Lacy at the door. “Back this way,” I said to her, not bothering with a greeting, given both the tension of the circumstances and the fact that I’d just seen her about a half hour ago.
I showed her to the living room, crossing my arms and rubbing my own biceps at the cold. I could hear the furnace working overtime, trying to counteract the cold December air.
“Sheesh,” Lacy murmured. “This is a right mess and no mistake.”
“Yeah,” I agreed.
The glass from the patio door had shattered into sharp, jagged pieces, both large and small, several of which had been ground into the carpet by the shoes of the two men, and probablyalso Buettner’s butt when he’d sagged onto it. There was blood spattered in a rough semicircle around the door, with more soaked into the carpet where he’d been sitting. I was not looking forward to getting that out.
Especially not before Noah and Lulu showed up.
Tomorrow.
Shit.
It was late—almostmidnight—by the time everybody had gotten what they needed and left the house, and I’d wrestled a big sheet of plywood from the garage and screwed it into the frame of the patio door to block the worst of the cold. Elliot had scrounged up some batting from somewhere—apparently he still had most of his mom’s old crafting supplies stashed in a closet—and I stapled that over the seams to stop the worst of the draft.
It was hideous, but at least it helped bring up the temperature in the house.
Before she’d left, Lacy told me to just come back after the holidays—unless there was an emergency, of course. I’d nodded. It was only an extra day off. I’d be back at work on Tuesday, since they gave us Monday off anyway to account for the holiday.
Although all three of us—Roger, Lacy, and me—knew full well that we’d end up working at least one of those days. As the new guy, I got the first call, then Lacy, then Roger. Repeat as needed. I was under no illusion that people would very obligingly not get into fatal accidents or avoid violence just because it was Christmas.
Roger’s family was celebrating on Monday because of spouses, so we’d skip him that day, and Lacy’s family was doing the twenty-fourth, so I’d gotten incredibly lucky to get theholiday itself off—which was good, because Elliot was dragging me, Noah, and Lulu to Madison with Hart’s whole family. I couldn’t decide if that was sweet or terrifying.
Elliot had gone to bed, and I’d left him curled up on his side, the bedside lamp on and the heavy curtains drawn across the floor-to-ceiling windows. I hoped that since Buettner and his friend—since Rickers, who had apparently been a high school track star, had successfully run him down and dragged him back in cuffs—were now in jail, that maybe Elliot could at least get some sleep.
He’d supervised the installation of the plywood and batting, but when I’d started cleanup, he’d mumbled something about not bothering, then went to bed.
I wasn’t going to not bother, though.
I swept up as much glass as I could, then went and got the shop vac from the garage to try to get the rest. Then I used up all the baking soda in the house pouring it on the blood to absorb some of the not-yet-dry liquid and to make scrubbing the stain out a little easier. I wasn’t entirely certain it would work, but I was going to try.
Later. After I got some sleep.
