Free Smith Investigation Series Box Set 1 by Deborah Diaz Page B

like a child.
    I ordered my food, on the lighter side since my appetite seemed to have vanished, and kept quiet the whole meal. It wasn’t that I was avoiding Dylan, but one glance at him told me that a public talk would make him terribly uncomfortable.
    There was something else too. His apprehension was gone, a certain degree of sadness replacing it. I felt bad.
    He finished his meal first and went to the counter. I saw he had bought himself a beer and I didn’t like the looks of it. He was not a beer drinking guy, which meant he was trying to avoid drinking hard liquor on the job, while still getting the numbing effect he sought. Not a good sign.
    I rose, excused myself and, with an approving nod from Smith, I walked to Dylan. Leaning on the counter, I cleared my throat.
    “What do you want?” he asked, not bothering to look at me.
    “How are you feeling?”
    He smirked and took a sip of his beer. “They told you, didn’t they?”
    “Yes. And I’m sorry for my ignorance.”
    “Yeah, sure.”
    “I spoke out of turn, but you were in the wrong, nonetheless.”
    He finally looked at me.
    “You made a mistake and were avoiding responsibility. That’s what got me mad. My remark about your personal involvement might’ve been uncalled for, but no less true,” I finished.
    He gazed back at me, then nodded.
    “You’re right. I didn’t see it coming. I guess I have a soft spot for crying women,” he admitted and tried to take another sip of beer, but gave up.
    I smiled. “It’s alright, that’s why we’re a team. Why don’t you leave that beer for the beer drinkers and come back to the table. I'm thinking about dessert.”
    He threw me a grateful glance, and appeared fine to leave the beer where it was. “What kind of pie?” he asked, walking beside me.
    “I didn’t say I was going to have pie.”
    “What else is there? Dessert equals pie, always.”
    We laughed and sat back at the table. The tension seemed to diffuse itself instantly and everyone seemed more comfortable.
    In the middle of one of DeMarco’s humorous stories, I was notified of another email. Pushing my chair back, I read it in a hurry.
    “That’s it!” I exclaimed, half jumping out of my chair.
    “What?” the group collectively asked me.
    “The email form the hotel,” I pointed to my phone.
    “Gimme that!” Dylan demanded.
    I let him read it, thinking that he should reach his own conclusion.
    “She killed him,” he admitted, looking up from the screen.
    “What is it?” asked Smith, struggling to swallow the last bite of pie.
    “At the hotel, they never saw Michael Monroe.”
    “But how is that possible?” Spike inquired, her dark eyebrows coming together in a thoughtful expression. “Both their credit cards were used while in Canada. And, they crossed the border together.”
    Dylan looked at me and I nodded. It was his show after all. I just sat back and let him explain all.
    “That’s what she wanted the border police to see. Both of the officers said that he was asleep, right? Maybe she went on the trip to cover her tracks.”
    “Yeah, but Officer What’s-his-name saw him. Like, saw him, saw him,” Spike argued.
    They looked thoughtful so I decide to help them out.
    “What if he was already dead?”
    “When they crossed the border?” Dylan asked.
    “That’s right! So she dumped his body before getting to the hotel, had a weekend to herself, used both their credit cards and then just came back,” Spike finally figured it out, visibly excited by her discovery.
    “She used the same 'my husband is asleep' scheme on the way back too . She could’ve piled some clothes or something on the back seat, for all I know, make it look like Michael was there. And she got damn lucky,” Dylan continued. There was not a trace of yesterday's attachment to Sarah Monroe in his voice. He looked genuinely happy to have found her out.
    “Yes. And, when she got the flat tire, she didn’t think she needed to act like she wasn’t