Free Death of a Chorus Girl (The Delacroix Series Book 1) by P. M. Briede Page B

detective in me is innately suspicious.  The man, well he is still too busy getting lost in her sparkling eyes.
     
    Empathy Delacroix: Advice
     
    “What information did the detective need this time, Em?”  It is intermission, and this is the first time Tom has spoken to me since barging into my office more than two hours ago.
    “Just the same stuff, I guess,” I answer.  “Is there anything else I could recount about Annie’s personal life?  He asked about the loose stage equipment.”
    “What’d you tell him?” Tom presses.
    I shift in my seat and don’t meet his gaze, trying to choose my words carefully.  “You know I’m not supposed to divulge that to you.  None of us are supposed to be discussing what we talk to the detectives about.”  It’s true.  Beauregard told me during the first round of questions that it convolutes the witness statements.
    Tom’s fingers run the length of my jaw as he turns my face to his.  “What happened to my Em who told me everything?”  I’ve never told you everything .  I meet what he hopes is a persuasive expression and keep my mouth shut.  I assume he gets the message when his lips thin and turn white out of annoyance.  “That took an hour and a half?”
    “I suppose.”  There, that is a non-committal answer without being an outright lie.  Not that the distinction makes me feel any better.
    One side of his mouth arcs into a cunning smile.  “This is why they keep talking to you.  You’re the only one who’s following their rules.  You know they haven’t really contacted anyone else for further questioning, don’t you?”
    I swat his hand away from my jaw. “No.  I don’t know why it’s such a big deal to do what I can to help them with their investigation.  Annie was murdered, Tom.  She may have been a space cadet and naïve, but she didn’t deserve to die because of it.”
    That shuts him up, until, “How hard have you fallen for this detective?”
    I choke on my own saliva.  “What makes you say that?”
    “I’ve seen you handle men who are infatuated with you,” Tom explains with a cynical chuckle.  “I’m one of them, remember ?  You’re polite but not inviting.”
    “Look, I see no reason to be rude to someone I barely know.  Now do you want to discuss the problems with this show, or not?”
    The house lights flicker before we can, signaling the second act.  I glance down at my notepad, which scarcely has anything written on it, and feel bad.  One of the patrons shares some similar features to a certain fetching detective I’m getting to know and every time I caught sight of him my mind wandered to scenes of my hopeful future.  Fortunately, Tom doesn’t hide his emotions well.  I’ve noticed some of his not so subtle cues over the years, the ones that indicate when he is disgruntled with how certain aspects of the show play.  Each time he leans forward, I forcibly pull myself out of my head and return my attention back on the stage.
    By the end of the show, I have a few more notes than before.  Enough, I feel, to make it worth having come.  I stand in the lobby, waiting patiently for Tom to get finished with the creative team.  “Em, can you come over here for a minute?” he calls out, waving me over.  He introduces me after I join them.  They are all new to the theatre circuit.  This show is the first one most of them are cutting their teeth on.  It’s one of the things I admire about Tom.  He spots talent and is very generous in giving the person a helping hand in this business.  “Are you free tomorrow?”
    “You have to check with my boss,” I answer, smiling.  “I’m currently committed to another show.”
    I finally get an easy laugh from Tom.  “Touché.  Since I happen to know your boss , I think there will be some time in the morning so your unparalleled talents can help out here.”  With that, he schedules a time for us to come back to the theatre to review our notes.  We depart