“I said. “What do you mean?” As I spoke, I could feel a nervous flush begin its way up my chest, relentless as General Sherman’s march to the sea. I prayed it ran out of firepower before it reached the top of my tank top.“You don’t know what I’m talking about?”“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. I described everything about the crime scene as accurately as I could.”“That’s not what I’m referring to,” Tate said, and allowed his remark to hang in the air. Gosh, he did the pregnant pause thing almost as well ...as Cat Jones did. I fought off a momentary urge to confess to burning down several warehouses or killing Jimmy Hoffa and sat there with what I hoped was a look of innocent bafflement—or baffled innocence—on my face.“I’m talking about the real reason you were here last night,” Tate said finally, his voice laced with frustration. “It wasn’t to collect your work, was it?”So did this mean Robby had given me up? I couldn’t believe it. Why would he have done that?MoreLessRead More Read Less
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