Free Beaglemania by Linda O. Johnston

as I felt tears rush into them. Mistake. The image of Efram, bloody and still, popped into my head, and I again opened my eyes to find the detective still watching me keenly.
    “So . . . you were staying here all night. Did you lock all the doors and gates?”
    The way he looked at me I guessed that was a loaded question. I mentally started going through all entries. I’d certainly checked the ones in front, and into the parking lot. There was a fence around the perimeter of the entire site, with a couple of gates here and there, including one leading to an alley from which we brought in the heaviest bags of food since it was closest to the storage shed. It was always kept locked, and I’d checked it. Had Efram nevertheless sneaked in through there? Did he have a key made for that or any of the other locks while he was volunteering here?
    He’d obviously gotten in somehow and turned off the alarm. And whoever killed him must have accompanied him.
    But his being on the premises at all was another strike against me, most likely, in this detective’s eyes.
    Worry coursed through me in an ever-increasing stream. Would he arrest me?
    What was the evidence against me? Possible fingerprints on the knife on the ground beside Efram. My animosity toward the guy. He was here, and he shouldn’t have been. I was here because of him. And he had threatened me.
    But—
    As I’ve said before, I’m not a killer . . . of animals.
    And even though he’d been a terrible man, I hadn’t hurt Efram for any reason, self-defense or otherwise.
    Somehow, I had to convince this skeptical detective of that.

Chapter 6

    I’d been surviving on adrenaline for what seemed like hours. Probably was hours. But fatigue eventually trumped all other sensations.
    The detective hadn’t eased up. Wasn’t he tired, too? Hard to tell. His questions were sounding familiar, so maybe he was. More likely, he was hoping I’d begin spouting inconsistent responses to prove his assumption that I was lying.
    Which I wasn’t.
    My leaning on the table once more was no longer intended to resemble eagerness, but to hold me up. I couldn’t tell much of what was going on outside. How long did a crime scene investigation take?
    How were my poor charges out there doing?
    “So, Ms. Vancouver,” Detective Garciana was saying, “please tell me about the last time Mr. Kiley volunteered here at HotRescues.”
    I’d only responded to that three times before. Instead of answering now, I posed a question to him—not for the first time, either. “Detective, please. When can I go outside and check on the animals?”
    “Soon. Now—”
    “Sorry, but that’s not good enough,” I snapped, earning a glare. “I gather you’re not much of a pet lover, but a lot of animals out there need to be fed and given water. Maybe have their enclosures cleaned. My staff will arrive soon. If you won’t let me out there, will you at least promise to—”
    My BlackBerry rang. Not asking for permission to answer, I yanked it from my pocket. Nina’s number appeared on the display.
    “Hi,” I said. “Are you on your way? I need to tell you—”
    “What happened, Lauren? I just woke up and . . . Thank God you’re okay. You are okay, aren’t you? HotRescues is all over the news. They say someone was hurt, and I was so afraid—”
    “I’m fine,” I assured her. I glanced toward the detective. He glowered but didn’t insist that I hang up. Not that I’d pay attention if he tried. “The thing is—well, I can’t go into detail now, but Efram showed up here. He’s the one who was . . . hurt. And now the place is a crime scene and I’m not being allowed to go into the shelter area to take care of the animals.”
    I was whining, damn it. And to someone who might empathize but wouldn’t be able to do anything about it without permission.
    I moved the phone away from my mouth as I said to Detective Garciana, “Will you please let some of my employees check on our