Influenced by Eva Robinson (best free ebook reader TXT) 📗

pull a knitted blanket onto herself, but under the blanket, she was naked. That was… weird.

How had she gotten back home?

The whole loft smelled of vomit, and she closed her eyes, her mind hazy with the memory of throwing up in the kitchen sink.

Only two things were really crystal-clear in her mind at this moment, and one was that she was too old for this crap. The other was a certainty that she’d done something horrible last night. A deep sense of shame spread between her ribs. Was it something to do with Hannah?

Rowan wondered if someone else had been in her apartment with her—maybe that was why she was naked. But she didn’t think so. Surely she’d remember that?

Something terrible was still happening. Something loud, a ringing like a bell…

Her mouth was so dry, and she looked around her for water. She’d woken to the hot sun streaming in through those glass windows, far too hot for May, the windows all closed.

When she sat up, a rushing noise rose in her ears, like a river inside her skull.

Her red dress lay on the floor about ten feet away. She stood and snatched it up to slip over her head. She had no idea where her underwear was. An empty bottle of wine lay on the floor, but that was par for the course.

That ringing noise would drive her mad. What was that?

When she looked down at herself, she noticed the front of her red dress was stained now, with maroon all down the front. She lifted the skirt to sniff it, relieved to find it was wine.

She had no idea what time it was. And as she searched around herself, a little panic sparked along her nerves. Where the hell was her phone? Her phone would tell her everything, but she’d have to find it first.

She rose, but it was too fast, and nausea climbed up her throat. As she swallowed hard, she leaned against a chair, steadying herself. She closed her eyes and repeated what she’d said to Hannah last night. One thing at a time. One thing at a time.

First thing was water. She crossed to the sink, but her stomach curdled at the stench.

Not here.

Opening a cupboard, she snatched a glass and rushed to the bathroom. Her hand shook as she brought it to her mouth.

She’d forgotten something important. If she knew where her phone was, she’d have the answers to everything. What she’d done last night; what she was supposed to be doing right now.

A banging sound trembled in her mind. It took her a moment to realize she wasn’t imagining it, that it was a banging on the door and not in her head. Someone was in the hall outside her apartment. What the hell? What kind of monster banged on your door on a Saturday morning?

It was probably another religious person with pamphlets suggesting that she was going to hell, complete with illustrations of people burning. When she got to the bottom of the stairs, she would open the door and yell in their faces that she was already in hell. The sound of the door slamming would be the only satisfying thing about this morning.

But when she yanked the door open at the bottom of the stairs, her jaw dropped. It wasn’t the fanatics with the pamphlets. It was a man in a grey suit with dark eyes, and a jaw line that could charm the panties off a nun. “Ms. Harris?”

Her mouth was so dry. She licked her lips, a terrible understanding beginning to dawn in her mind.

He was a cop, wasn’t he? “What happened? I don’t remember anything.”

He frowned. “I’m sorry?”

He was British. Handsome and British, and if she weren’t nauseated, in a stained dress, and probably about to be arrested, she’d definitely hit on him.

She touched her forehead, closing her eyes for a moment. “Sorry. I just woke up. I went to bed late.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I’m Detective Michael Stewart. This was the time you told me to come for the interview about Arabella.”

She inhaled deeply, trying to master a sense of control over the situation. One thing at a time. “Of course. Come on up.”

Okay. So this wasn’t about whatever she had done last night.

As she climbed the stairs, she glanced back over her shoulder at the detective, suddenly aware of how short her dress was and her lack of underwear.

Well, that’s one way to charm him.

At the top of her stairs, she took in the disaster of her apartment—the empty bottle of champagne on the marble island, the peach pulp left in the blender. Damp towels on the floor, piles of dirty laundry. Mountains of recycling, the scent of trash and puke.

But what worried her the most was the coke, because she had no idea where she’d left it. Would Michael arrest her if he found it?

She gestured at one of the stools by the counter. “Do you want coffee? Or tea?”

“No, thank you. Too late in the afternoon for me.”

So it wasn’t morning. “Why did you want to ask me about Arabella?”

“She didn’t die of natural causes.”

A sense of panic thrummed inside Rowan’s skull. “So she was murdered?”

It was at that moment that she spotted the little plastic baggie of coke—just two feet behind Michael on the marble countertop. Her stomach clenched. She needed him out of here.

“I’m hoping you could give us more information about Arabella.”

Usually, if she wanted a man to do something, she just had to flirt a little, make him think about how she’d look naked. But she had no idea if that would get a cop to leave her apartment.

She leaned forward, smiling coyly, knowing that the top of her dress was revealing just enough cleavage. “I haven’t even had the chance to shower yet. Maybe you could give me a chance to peel off my dress and wash my naked body.”

Except that was way too much, not subtle at all. He looked unimpressed, and her cheeks burned.

He folded his