glancing up to make sure Winter wasn’t listening in too much, but he was speaking with the woman waiting to see my nether regions. “I need you to grab a change of clothes for me, and a coat. Come over to Bond Antiques.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’ll explain when you get here, but please hurry.”
Hurry he did. Neil was there in just under twenty minutes, which couldn’t have been safe in this storm, but I was thankful since the blood was fairly dry and crusty and making me extremely uncomfortable at this point. I watched Neil flash his badge and gain immediate entrance into the shop. He was carrying a backpack and looking around warily.
“Detective Millet?” Winter asked, intercepting Neil before I had a chance to shock him with my appearance.
Neil turned at the call of his name. “Oh, Winter. Hello.”
“You part of my evidence team? You’re late.”
Neil shook his head. “No… I’m not….” He paused, sort of at a loss with the situation.
“Neil,” I called.
He looked over his shoulder, and I was able to discern his startled expression from the distance between us and with the lights on, which meant he was probably going to freak the fuck out in three, two, one….
“Seb? What the hell?” he asked, approaching me. “Jesus! This isn’t yours, right?”
“No. Neil, I’m sorry I had to call. But they need to take my clothes into evidence, and I didn’t want to sport a onesie, courtesy of the NYPD.”
“Evidence for what?” Neil demanded.
“Mike’s dead.” I motioned to myself. “I mean, no, no! I found him. I tripped over him. His head was—can I just have the clothes?” I asked tiredly and grabbed for the backpack.
“No, tell me what happened.”
“So you and Mr. Snow are close?” Winter asked, having come up behind Neil silently.
“Friends,” Neil replied sternly.
I was too stressed to give a shit about this lie and let it slide without remark.
“Friends with keys to each other’s apartments?” Winter continued.
“I’m just here to drop off clothes,” Neil warned in a tone with the underlying threat of back off, man . He looked at me and thrust the pack forward. “I’ll talk to you later.” He was walking out the door before I could think of something to say.
Winter turned his gaze on me, and I stared back up at him. Of all the serious issues I could have been focusing on, I was instead obsessing over his curious-looking eyes again. And those freckles. God, he even had them down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt. I started to consider just how extensive that freckle trail was—
“Get those clothes off.” He pointed expectantly at the woman who appeared at my side again to collect the damning evidence.
“Winter,” Lancaster called as she stepped into the store again with a man who had to be the city medical examiner.
Winter gave me one last glare before leaving.
I learned the evidence woman’s name was Martha Stewart—no relation, she added—and she had no sense of privacy.
“Honey, if you think I’m trying to sneak a peek, you’ve got nothing to worry about,” she said, carefully putting my jacket into a collection bag and labeling the front.
“No? Why’s that?” I asked, trying my best to ignore the fact I was now naked from the waist up in a cold room, with half a dozen cops nearby and a coroner shoving a liver thermometer into the body of my former boss.
“You aren’t my type,” she indicated while putting away my T-shirt next.
“I bet you say that to keep all the boys from blushing.”
“I got a wife, sweetie,” Martha said casually. “Pants. Come on. I’ve got a lot to do here.”
I had never unbuttoned so quickly for anyone, but she was about to start tapping her foot. “You’re not my type either, Martha.”
“Oh, I can tell,” she said, chuckling to herself.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you sure aren’t checking out my goods when you’ve got a ginger to ogle.”
Instead of
“What’s going on?”
“I’ll explain when you get here, but please hurry.”
Hurry he did. Neil was there in just under twenty minutes, which couldn’t have been safe in this storm, but I was thankful since the blood was fairly dry and crusty and making me extremely uncomfortable at this point. I watched Neil flash his badge and gain immediate entrance into the shop. He was carrying a backpack and looking around warily.
“Detective Millet?” Winter asked, intercepting Neil before I had a chance to shock him with my appearance.
Neil turned at the call of his name. “Oh, Winter. Hello.”
“You part of my evidence team? You’re late.”
Neil shook his head. “No… I’m not….” He paused, sort of at a loss with the situation.
“Neil,” I called.
He looked over his shoulder, and I was able to discern his startled expression from the distance between us and with the lights on, which meant he was probably going to freak the fuck out in three, two, one….
“Seb? What the hell?” he asked, approaching me. “Jesus! This isn’t yours, right?”
“No. Neil, I’m sorry I had to call. But they need to take my clothes into evidence, and I didn’t want to sport a onesie, courtesy of the NYPD.”
“Evidence for what?” Neil demanded.
“Mike’s dead.” I motioned to myself. “I mean, no, no! I found him. I tripped over him. His head was—can I just have the clothes?” I asked tiredly and grabbed for the backpack.
“No, tell me what happened.”
“So you and Mr. Snow are close?” Winter asked, having come up behind Neil silently.
“Friends,” Neil replied sternly.
I was too stressed to give a shit about this lie and let it slide without remark.
“Friends with keys to each other’s apartments?” Winter continued.
“I’m just here to drop off clothes,” Neil warned in a tone with the underlying threat of back off, man . He looked at me and thrust the pack forward. “I’ll talk to you later.” He was walking out the door before I could think of something to say.
Winter turned his gaze on me, and I stared back up at him. Of all the serious issues I could have been focusing on, I was instead obsessing over his curious-looking eyes again. And those freckles. God, he even had them down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt. I started to consider just how extensive that freckle trail was—
“Get those clothes off.” He pointed expectantly at the woman who appeared at my side again to collect the damning evidence.
“Winter,” Lancaster called as she stepped into the store again with a man who had to be the city medical examiner.
Winter gave me one last glare before leaving.
I learned the evidence woman’s name was Martha Stewart—no relation, she added—and she had no sense of privacy.
“Honey, if you think I’m trying to sneak a peek, you’ve got nothing to worry about,” she said, carefully putting my jacket into a collection bag and labeling the front.
“No? Why’s that?” I asked, trying my best to ignore the fact I was now naked from the waist up in a cold room, with half a dozen cops nearby and a coroner shoving a liver thermometer into the body of my former boss.
“You aren’t my type,” she indicated while putting away my T-shirt next.
“I bet you say that to keep all the boys from blushing.”
“I got a wife, sweetie,” Martha said casually. “Pants. Come on. I’ve got a lot to do here.”
I had never unbuttoned so quickly for anyone, but she was about to start tapping her foot. “You’re not my type either, Martha.”
“Oh, I can tell,” she said, chuckling to herself.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you sure aren’t checking out my goods when you’ve got a ginger to ogle.”
Instead of
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