Free Unquiet by Melanie Hansen Page B

said, her tone wary. “What do you want?”
    “Dr. Devlin, I’m Loren Smith. Do you remember me?”
    The eye widened and the door swung open. Eliot’s mother stood there, dressed in a sharp navy-blue suit, perfectly coiffed, her mouth open in shock.
    “Of course I remember you, Loren,” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
    “May I come in?”
    “Well, I’m on my way to work. I have an important meeting with the chief of plastic surgery and I—”
    “It won’t take long, Dr. Devlin.” Loren, as a cop, was used to insisting, and he took a step forward, forcing her to take a corresponding step backward or else have him tread on her toes. Her lips tightened a fraction but she gestured him to come inside.
    “Of course,” she murmured. “Come have some coffee.” She spun on her heel and headed off toward what was presumably the kitchen. Loren pushed the front door closed behind him and followed the scent of a subtle but no doubt expensive perfume back into the depths of the house.
    And what a house it was. Large vaulted ceilings, marble floors, a curving staircase that led up to the second floor. The kitchen Loren entered was bigger than his entire apartment, and Dr. Devlin gestured him to a barstool at the huge island in the center. Loren sat, waiting while Eliot’s mother poured him a cup of coffee he didn’t want, the gallons he’d already drunk at that diner roiling in his stomach. He took it, though, murmuring his thanks.
    They sipped in silence for a moment before Dr. Devlin took a deep breath and asked, “Why are you here, Loren?”
    “I saw Eliot last night, at a strip club,” he murmured, and Eliot’s mom closed her eyes, her lips trembling.
    “He wasn’t a patron. He was onstage, dancing,” he added.
    “And why were you there? What are you even doing here in Arizona?” she snapped, setting her coffee cup down with a clink, her eyes challenging. Loren just looked back at her steadily, and she couldn’t hold his gaze, turning her head away.
    Loren didn’t owe her any goddamned explanations, but he said, “I’m on loan to the police department here, and I’m working undercover in a joint operation with the ATF. I was meeting a contact at this club. I saw Eliot, and he—he didn’t even seem to recognize me.” The words came out as a painful rasp, and it was his turn to swallow and look away. Eliot had been on his fucking lap , for Christ’s sake, grinding his crotch down into Loren’s, and there wasn’t a shred of recognition on his face.
    Dr. Devlin looked at him again, her green eyes, so like Eliot’s, filled with a reluctant compassion. She picked up the cell phone at her elbow and made a call, murmuring something about pushing her meeting back an hour. When she hung up, she refreshed both of their coffees and said, “Come into the living room, Loren.”
    He followed her into an enormous formal living room that looked to him like something straight out of a home decorating show. He didn’t mean to gape like a yokel, but it was hard not to. Expensive art hung on the walls, the blond and gleaming hardwood floors covered with plush Oriental rugs.
    “You have a beautiful home,” he managed, just to be polite, and she murmured, “Thank you,” as they both settled into some antique wingback chairs. Loren hoped his chair would hold him, grimacing as it gave an alarming creak under his muscular weight.
    “Dr. Devlin,” he began, and Eliot’s mother held up her hand.
    “Please, Loren, call me Rebecca,” she said. “We’re both adults here.” He nodded, and she continued, “Loren, has anyone shared with you what Eliot’s diagnosis is?”
    Loren shook his head, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice as he replied, “Nobody would talk to me after his hospitalization, remember?”
    She bit her lip. Loren fucking remembered how he’d shown up every day at the Devlins’ front door the week after it happened, pleading for answers, begging for information. No one