stepped back, granting her space, but never lowered his weapon. Asia attempted to get to her feet again, surrendering to Slade’s outstretched palm as he pulled her upright. At five feet ten inches, she stood nose to nose with Slade. The quick change of position had her teetering off balance on her tingling legs. His steadying contact stabilized her. Grounded her. Like he’d done when they were kids.
Slade remained silent, helping her to the closest of the three green-and-white lawn chairs that passed for living room furniture.
She paused.
“Don’t be difficult,” he cautioned.
Asia bristled against his touch and shifted away from his hold with a huff. “I’m not being difficult. For your information, I’m worried the chair might fall apart.” She nodded at the frayed material.
“It’ll be fine,” he assured her.
She frowned and dropped onto the seat without comment, hoping the fabric would rip and prove him wrong.
“Stay put.”
“You’re leaving me alone? With him?” She shivered and shrank back, as if the dead man would rise and attack her.
“He’s not going anywhere. Just wait here.” Slade pressed down on her uninjured shoulder, emphasizing the instructions before moving into the hallway.
Asia studied Nevil Quenten, torn between terror and curiosity. The man’s tidy appearance complete with a gray suit and navy tie reminded her of a bank manager. But he was an unmerciful drug cartel leader who had destroyed her deceased husband, Zander.
And now Nevil Quenten was dead. In the same room as her.
She shifted farther to the side and racked her brain. The dissipating haze brought no great revelations. Why couldn’t she remember anything? The abyss in her mind explained nothing about her present conditions, and the strain exaggerated the headache clawing its way across her temples.
She scanned the foreign space with its worn brown carpet and plastic walls. Not drywall? What kind of house had plastic walls? A mobile, trailer or prefabricated home? She had no friends or acquaintances who lived in any houses like those. Why can’t I remember anything?
The rancid scent of urine and rotting food added to her queasiness. Lawn chairs half circled the dated nineteen-inch television. Empty blue-and-white pizza boxes stacked in a haphazard tower decorated the floor beside the yellow refrigerator in the tiny kitchenette to her left. A pathetic string of silver garland hung from the broken window blinds in uneven loops, and chipped red Christmas ornaments tugged the tinsel downward. The display provided a sad attempt at sprucing the place up with holiday spirit.
Where was she? Anxiety ratcheted, twisting her stomach into knots.
Slade returned and slipped his service weapon into the holster. “The house is clear.”
“What about the outside?”
He quirked an eyebrow, annoyance tainting his tone. “I checked the perimeter before entering this place. It’s protocol.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why did you text me to meet you here? To show me you killed him?”
That got her attention. “I didn’t kill anyone, and I never sent you a text! I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She might not be able to explain how she’d gotten here, but murder wasn’t in her DNA. And texting her ex-boyfriend ranked among the top five on her not-in-this-lifetime list.
He walked toward the kitchenette and flipped on the switch, illuminating the space. She regarded his solid build outlined in the starched navy blue uniform with Ginsu-knife creases. Not a dark hair out of place in his meticulous, close-cropped style. Zander had been the perfect state trooper too. Might’ve still been if he’d gotten the help he needed before—
“What’s going on here?” Slade probed, facing her in the classic feet-shoulder-width-apart power stance.
Asia contemplated her answer. They’d written the Miranda warning for occasions such as this, but that applied to real criminals. You have the right to remain silent...starting now. She had nothing to hide, since she had no memory of whatever she should be hiding, anyway.
“I came to just before you walked in. I have no idea how long I was unconscious, and your knock on the door jarred me into this bizarre scene. I don’t remember anything beyond being in my apartment getting ready for bed.”
Slade’s frown conveyed his skepticism.
“You wanted the truth and I’m telling you,” Asia continued, her words tumbling out faster. “When I caught sight of the dead guy—” She tried to point to Nevil’s body, but the handcuffs restricted her movement and the bloodied cloth tumbled to the floor. “I reacted. Just grabbed the thing off my lap and then you walked in.” She nodded toward the Glock. “I didn’t even realize it was a gun.”
“You don’t seriously expect me to believe that.” Slade stooped, lifted the cloth and reapplied it to her shoulder before moving to the TV and shutting it off. Silence hovered between them like an invisible shield of disbelief. “I need you to tell me what happened before I got here. I can’t hold off calling this in to dispatch any longer.” His caramel-brown eyes pleaded with her to respond, though he remained in his defensive posture.
Their history should eliminate the caution he maintained. They’d grown up together, had dated through most of high school, had basically known each other forever. Surely those memories counted for something. Asia’s gaze jerked from Slade to Nevil’s body, then to the weapon on the floor. Please, Lord, make my memory return. Give me wisdom in what to say.
“Was it self-defense?”
She met Slade’s penetrating look. All they were missing was a spotlight and metal table for the way his interrogation was going. “Nice try, but I didn’t kill him.”
“I saw you holding the gun.”
The allegation stung, raising her defenses. “Are you listening at all? I told you, I went to bed early. In my apartment. Next thing I know, I’m waking up here. Wherever ‘here’ is.”
“Can anyone corroborate your story?”
Asia sat up straighter and lifted her chin. “No, because I was alone. And it’s not a story. It’s the truth.”
“Fine. If you refuse to cooperate, we’ll stick to procedures and I’ll treat you like any other murder suspect.” Slade depressed the button on his portable shoulder mic. “Request assistance and ambulance. One injured suspect, one dead, possibly more people unknown and unaccounted for.”
“Ten-four, twenty-two fifty,” the dispatcher confirmed.
Asia jumped to her feet, unable to breathe past the vise squeezing her chest. Ten fifty at night. How long had she been here? “What day is it?”
Slade tilted his head. “Don’t even try the helpless damsel thing.”
She clamped a hand onto his forearm clumsily and demanded, “Tell me what day it is.”
He plucked away her fingers then led her back to the chair. “You have to sit down. We don’t need you losing more blood.”
“The date?” Asia insisted, searching his eyes.
He cocked his head to the side and blew out a breath. “December twenty-second.”
“Are you sure?” The room swayed, and Asia’s hands fell heavy in her lap.
“Of course I’m sure.” Slade adjusted his mic wire, clearly frustrated. Well, he wasn’t the only one.
“No. That’s not possible,” Asia mumbled. “It can’t be.” Her thoughts traveled to her color-coded salon appointment book. Pink for haircuts, blue for pedicures—and December twentieth in bold print at the top of the page. Horrified, she doubled over, pressing her bound wrists against her stomach.
“Hey,