Free Family Pride (Blood of the Pride) by Sheryl Nantus Page B

little trace of urine mixed in.
    I fought not to gag. The walls were a drab gray and for a frantic second I thought they were closing in on me.
    Being trapped is one of our greatest fears. We chafed at the bit doing office jobs and thrived outside—putting us in cages was akin to a death sentence.
    I swallowed hard, forcing the ball of fear away. I had nothing to fear from the police.
    Bran, however, was a whole other thing. I definitely wasn’t making our lunch date.
    The stainless steel table had seen better days—the scrapes and dents on the surface held a thousand stories, none of which I wanted to hear or to add my testimony to. I shifted in the uncomfortable wooden chair and cleared my throat.
    “Any chance of getting a bottle of water here?”
    I knew there were people on the other side of the glass. I couldn’t scent them but I knew they were there, studying me like a butterfly under glass.
    “Please?”
    The door opened, admitting Detective Hank Attersley.
    He tossed a plastic water bottle at me as he closed the door.
    I caught it with one hand and wrestled the cap off. The condensation dripped onto the table, forming a small puddle of water.
    He threw a file folder on the table, sat opposite me and glared, a snarl curling his lips. The generic brown suit was tight across his shoulders, with the white shirt desperately trying to hold in an ample belly brought on by having a wife who loved to cook and cooked well.
    Hank and I had a love-hate relationship.
    He loved making a little money on the side by helping me out. I hated the fact he kept trying to set me up with his wife’s nephew or worse, convince me to “go legal” and join the force.
    He flipped the folder open but didn’t look down at the pages.
    A black-and-white picture of Molly Callendar was clipped to the top page. Smiling, vibrant, alive.
    I knew the other photographs would be buried at the back under the autopsy report. Pictures no one other than the police needed to see.
    “Fuck, Reb. What have you gotten yourself into this time?” He answered his own question. “Murder. Fucking murder.”
    I smiled, trying not to bounce in the chair. It was uncomfortable to sit still but jumping around would signal nervousness and I didn’t want to be here a second longer than I needed to be. “Missed you too, Hank.”
    He rubbed his chin, the ever-present five o’clock shadow standing at attention. “Haven’t heard from you for a few months. You still hanging with that fellow?” His lips turned up on the last word as if he’d stepped in dog poop.
    “His name’s Brandon Hanover. And yes, I’m still ‘hanging’.” He was making small talk, working his way up to the big event. “Still living in Parkdale and still paying my bills like a good little Canadian.” I tilted my head toward the world outside the closed door. “Let’s get down to business. Any idea what happened to Molly Callendar?”
    His expression didn’t change. “That’s what I’m about to ask you.” He looked at the black-and-white photo before moving to the first typewritten page. “Girl, what the hell were you doing there in the first place?”
    “I was running courier. I put everything in my statement.” I reached over and tapped the top page. “Delivering a legal document that needed to be signed by the victim. On my second trip I discovered the body and, as per the law, notified the authorities ASAP.” I tried not to sound bored. This was the third or fourth time I’d had to explain my presence and it was getting both annoying and upsetting.
    Attersley grunted. “We’ve already spoke to Brayton. He confirms your temporary employment and your assignment.” He rapped his thick knuckles on the papers. “So how did you meet Brayton?”
    The casual tone didn’t fool me. He wanted to know how a cheap PI ended up running papers for one of the biggest investment firms in the city.
    I paused. If I told him about Michael Hanover I could be knocking over a whole nest