Meg Cabot - Overbite

So instead, he reached out and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her toward him in an embrace that was awkward as much because she wasn’t expecting it as because Alaric Wulf was not used to hugging people, and wasn’t very good at it.

“It’s all right,” he said, in what he hoped was a soothing voice. He stroked her hair. The fine threads, a little coarse from all the dye her friend Leisha had been using on them lately, were hot from the sun. “Whatever it is. It’s going to be fine.”

She finally seemed to realize what he was doing and stopped trying to pull away. To his surprise, he actually felt her relax in his arms. Something warm and wet touched his neck, and he realized, with a shock, that it was her tears.

“I don’t think so, Alaric,” she whispered. “I really don’t. Not this time.”

He didn’t know what to do. He’d gotten so accustomed to her giving him the cold shoulder that for her to completely drop all her defenses and melt against him like this was a little unnerving. He almost preferred the hostile glances and sarcasm. It was certainly better than tears. Hundreds of women had cried in front of him before, and it had never bothered him.

But this was awful.

He tightened his grip and said, lamely, “It can’t be that bad.” Then he wanted to kick himself. Actually, it really could be that bad. What did he know?

A squad car pulled up beside them. A Freewell police officer got out from behind the wheel, then walked around to haul a surprisingly tall and colorfully dressed—for suburban New Jersey—drag queen from the backseat.

“Honey,” the drag queen said to Meena as the officer escorted her into the building, “you save me a piece of that boy’s ass. I will be right out to get it.”

Alaric looked skyward, thankful he had taken Holtzman’s advice not to bring his sword.

“I think we should go inside and find Abraham,” Meena said in a small voice, stepping away from him.

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Alaric said, and hurried to open the door for her. He didn’t understand the look Meena gave him when he did this, one that seemed to be of mingled shock, gratitude, and something else that he could not identify.

But it did not make him feel any better.

Meena, followed closely by Alaric, walked into the impeccably clean, high-tech Freewell Police Department. She wondered why every head in the room did not swivel toward her as she came in. That’s how loudly her heartbeat was slamming inside her ears. She felt as if everyone in the whole world must be able to hear it.

But apparently, she was the only one who could.

She could see Abraham Holtzman sitting in the conference room the polite receptionist led them to, speaking to a sleepy-looking woman in a beige suit, and to David’s parents, who appeared decades older than they had the last time Meena had seen them.

Of course they did. Because their son was dead. Although they didn’t know it yet.

Meena swallowed and tried to plaster a warm smile of greeting on her face.

It was difficult to do so, however, when she was so hyperaware of Alaric Wulf behind her. She’d never forget the look in his eyes when he’d seen the scarf she’d tied around her neck to hide the ugly bruise David’s bite mark had left behind. She’d thought he was going to throw the coffee he was holding right into her face.

That he was only half wrong about how the bite had been acquired—since she had seen Lucien last night—caused her cheeks to burn. She wondered if he noticed.

“Ah, here’s Ms. Harper now, along with one of my associates, Mr. Wulf.” That gaze of Abraham’s was like a pair of lasers beneath the overhang of those shaggy eyebrows, so unkempt that they gave the appearance of a disordered mind.

And yet Meena knew better than anyone that Dr. Holtzman’s mind was very ordered indeed.

And that meant she was in big trouble. Because though she’d finally done her duty and reported last night’s “vampire-related incident,” she’d only reported one of them. She was determined to keep Lucien’s name out of it for as long as she could.

But between Abraham Holtzman and Alaric Wulf, both of whom were the most stubborn men—in their different ways—she’d ever encountered, she wasn’t certain how long she was going to be able to.

“Sorry I’m late,” Meena said, nervously, looking around. This was just like a scene from a TV crime show where they interviewed murder suspects.

But there were no two-way mirrors in the Freewell Police Department’s conference room, just a bank of windows looking out over the pleasantly landscaped lawn in front of the station house, and some photos scattered across the table … photos of David and Brianna that Meena presumed the Delmonicos had brought along with them.

They were recent studio portraits in which the baby was only a few months old. The attractive couple looked blissfully happy, beaming into the camera without a hair—or tooth—out of place.

David’s specialty was veneers. He’d always wanted to put some over Meena’s slightly crooked front teeth, but when he’d explained that to do so, he’d actually have to cut into her gums, she’d declined the offer.

“I’m still not sure,” Mrs. Delmonico was saying in a querulous voice, “why she had to bring so many lawyers along when all she said was that she just wanted to meet us here to—”

“We’re all just here to help, Mrs. Delmonico,” Abraham interrupted, in a soothing voice. “Ms. Harper, meet Detective Rogerson—” Abraham gestured to the tired-looking woman, who gave the impression of wishing she’d rather be anywhere but sitting with all of them. Meena didn’t blame her. “And of course you remember the Delmonicos.”

As David’s parents’ gazes landed on her, bruised and bewildered, Meena lost all ability to control her mouth. Her smile vanished, and she could only mutter, “Hello,” softly as she lowered herself onto the hard plastic chair Abraham offered her. She barely managed to keep herself from murmuring Sorry for your loss.

Because of course the Delmonicos didn’t yet know they’d had a loss … perhaps two.

And she certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell them.

“So, Ms. Harper,” the detective said in a businesslike tone. She flicked a glance at Alaric, who, rather than taking a seat at the conference table, perched himself on the windowsill, where he could best take in the view. He then whipped out his cell phone to check his text messages, appearing not in the least interested in the proceedings.

The detective looked away, then flipped open a notepad in front of her. “Mrs. Delmonico here says you might have some information about her son, who didn’t come home last night. What can you tell us about that?”

Meena glanced quickly at Abraham.

“Um,” she said. “I thought … on TV, they always interview the suspects in separate rooms.”

Detective Rogerson stared at her unsmilingly, her pen poised over her notepad. “This isn’t TV, and you aren’t suspected of anything, Ms. Harper, because at this time, no crime has been committed. Unless you’re the one who vandalized Mr. Delmonico’s car in the city last night.”

“Well, that is hardly likely,” Abraham said, “given my client’s small stature and the extreme strength it would have taken to do the sort of damage—”

Detective Rogerson shot Abraham a look. He smiled at her pleasantly.

“Well,” Meena said hastily, “that’s true. I had nothing to do with what happened to David’s car.”

Realizing she’d already made a strategic mistake, Meena was careful to look Detective Rogerson in the eye the whole time she was speaking so that she could not be accused of lying. She’d read this was one way the police could detect if you were telling the truth.