Little Girl Vanished By Denise Grover Swank EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Denise Grover Swank
- Language: English
- Genre: Private Investigator Mysteries
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
“You’ve been through a lot of traumas in only four months. How do you
feel about that?”
I stared at the therapist on my laptop screen, trying hard not to roll my
eyes. Not because I found it irritating that one side of his white button-up
shirt collar was tucked under his navy-blue pullover sweater while the other
was out and askew, like he’d thrown the sweater on at the last minute and
hadn’t bothered to check his appearance in a mirror. Nor that his comb-over
was so pathetic no one was buying that he had hair on top of his head,
which meant he was hiding things, and poorly, which meant he was a shit
therapist.
Physician, heal thyself.
No, it was his ridiculous question that was driving me insane.
Four months ago, I’d killed someone while working as a detective for
the Little Rock Police Department. Consequently, I’d lost my job, my
house, my money, and my reputation. My partner Keith—both personal and
professional—had turned on me.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened the night of…” he said,
checking his notes. His gaze popped back up. “October 17th?”
“I’m sure it’s all there in the paperwork,” I said dryly, gesturing toward
the screen. I couldn’t stop the self-deprecating smile that spread across my
face. “In case you missed it on the news.”
A hint of impatience flickered in his eyes. “I’d rather hear it from you.”
And I’d rather not repeat it. I’d told this story so many times, I
practically had the verbiage memorized, which, I was sure, gave it an air of
inauthenticity with each subsequent retelling. But if this was what it took to
convince the department I wasn’t unstable and that we could amicably cut
ties, then I’d do it to cut the marionette strings.
“I was investigating a murder case,” I said, sitting back in my chair. My
gaze drifted involuntarily to the cabinet under my sink where I kept my
bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “I was looking for a witness, and I was told he
worked the night shift at Durango’s Liquor. When I walked up to the
establishment, a teen was hanging outside. His name was Dylan Carpenter.
I asked him how old he was, and he told me to fuck off. I told him not to
enter the store and went inside myself.”
“Did you identify yourself as a detective?”
“No.”
“And then what happened?” he prodded.
I fought to keep from reminding him that therapists were supposed to let
their patients tell their stories at their own pace. Did this guy have dinner
reservations after this? I had my own plans, so I didn’t mind hurrying things
along.
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