Page 64 of Malaise
“I can’t help it,” I whine as I set my head against his chest. “You’re the best fucking thing that’s happened to me since Den died, and all of this? I can’t fucking take it if you weren’t here too.”
He pulls in a shuddered breath. “Babe….”
“You argue. You fight this,” I demand.
He holds on to me for what feels an age, letting me process what this means. Everything’s changed: our whole plan about me finishing school and him hopefully finding a job? It’s gone. Talk about a spanner in the works.
The sound of tyres outside and the distinct quiet after an engine shuts off, pull me from our embrace.
“Surely not,” I murmur, clambering off the bed in my haste to check the window beside the door. “Not yet.”
A plain navy sedan sits beside the Falcon. Two men in suits step out; one straightens his jacket as he surveys the buildings.
“Come, sit down, Meg.” Carver’s hands gently rest on my shoulders and he steers me away from the door. “Just sit, and don’t say anything. Okay?”
I scowl in response.
“Okay?” he asks again as three loud thumps sound at the door. “Let me handle this.”
I nod, pulling my knees to my chest. Carver tugs his T-shirt on and reaches for the handle. My heart goes haywire, thundering so hard against my ribcage I can feel it where my legs press into my chest.
“Can I help?” Carver asks, one hand casually on the edge of the door above his head.
“Brett Carver?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Constable Martin, and this is Senior Sergeant Albertson.” The men offer their hands in turn, and shake Carver’s. “We’ve got a few questions for you in relation to an investigation regarding a break-in at Jefferson’s Auto on Rhodes, your previous place of employment.”
“Yeah. My sister called and said you’d been around home.”
Detective Martin looks over Carver’s shoulder and eyes me on the chair. “Perhaps we should talk outside?”
“No.” Carver glances over and gives me a small smile. “She’s okay to hear what you’ve got to say.”
The cops run through the usual questioning of where he was, who he was with, and ask for any other information that may help eliminate him as a potential suspect. Carver asks what evidence they have against him, and all they’ll say is that they have “credible information.” What the hell does that even mean?
The cops leave with a promise to return once they’ve checked his alibi, and a warning not to think of leaving town until they do.
I stand at the window, shaking, as they drive off.
“It’ll be okay,” Carver says quietly behind me, his hands finding my waist.
I sink back into his embrace and shake my head. “Why don’t you sound like you believe your own words?”
He sighs, and leans down to kiss my temple. “Because I don’t. But I don’t want you to worry, either.”
“Too late.”