Morgan Hayes - See No Evil

Devane waved his hand dismissively. “Just thinking out loud,” he said. “And what was that you were serving time for again, Mr. Quaid? Grand theft, wasn’t it? Something to do with stolen gems, if I remember correctly.”

Devane stopped pacing and turned to look squarely at Allister, sizing him up. If the detective was hoping he would lash out, trip up somehow, he was going to be disappointed, Allister thought, clenching his fists in the pockets of his jacket.

“But they never did recover the rest of those gems, did they? Just the ones from your car, am I right? You still claiming you didn’t do it?”

Allister refused to respond. But Devane seemed undaunted.

“And what was that? Four, five years ago? Gosh, seems like only yesterday, and here you are, out on the streets again. Gotta love our justice system, huh?”

“Listen, Detective, if I’m a suspect, why don’t you come right out and say it. In fact, why don’t you go and get a warrant, and then you and your men can go over to my apartment and search it like you did the last time.”

“Actually, Mr. Quaid, it would be a lot easier if you just told me where the coins are.”

Allister shook his head. “And I suppose next you’ll be accusing me of killing Gary, right?”

Devane gave a shrug, but it was the accompanying sneer that grated on Allister’s patience.

“Are you finished, Detective?” he asked, swallowing his anger. “Like I said before, I have to bury a friend today.”

STEVIE SHIFTED on the hard wooden chair. Sliding one hand along her thigh, she felt for the hem of her dress, making sure it was in place as she crossed her legs. Next to her, Paige must have sensed her restlessness. She laid her hand over Stevie’s.

“How are you doing?” she whispered.

Stevie nodded and offered a quick smile to reassure her. But the truth was, she couldn’t remember if she’d ever felt as uncomfortable as she did right now.

Arriving a few minutes late had given Stevie the perfect excuse for taking a back-row seat, closer to the door in case she started to feel sick again from the painkillers, and out of sight of the rest of the mourners. When they’d sat down initially, Stevie had caught snippets of the whispered conversations—words of grief, murmurs of comfort. But without a visual context of who was speaking, that was all they were to Stevie—disjointed voices reeling dizzyingly around her.

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