To Touch a Thief (An Everly Gray Novella) by L. j. Charles

stumbled, dropped into his chair, and closed my eyes. My heart beat a triple tattoo against my ribs. This was so not good.
    His hand closed over my shoulder. “You’re breathing heavy, Ms. Gray. What’s going on?”
    No choice but to play along, Everly. Do not screw this up.
    I exaggerated a few noisy, panting breaths. “Panic attack. Tried to get to a window.”
    His head swiveled, right then left. “There’s no window in here.”  
    I grabbed the glass from his hand, stood, and guzzled the water. “Have to get air.”
    If Mitch or Adam had a video, they’d laugh their asses off. But only after they’d chewed me out for being so stupid as to be caught.
    I ran.

 
    THIRTEEN
     
    Jayne Hunt  
     
    The thin mattress on the holding cell cot provided little comfort for Jayne’s sore muscles. And what she wouldn’t give for a Diet Pepsi followed by a bottle of wine. Or two. She pushed the heels of her hands tight against her eyes to relieve the pressure from unshed tears.  
    Footsteps. She jumped up and angled her head to look down the hall.  
    Detective Stephens was strolling toward her, his shoulders hunched, suit rumpled, and jaw clenched.  
    He crowded next to the holding cell, pushing his belly against the bars while he unlocked the door. “You got some kind of friends, lady. Let’s go.”  
    A glimmer of hope exploded in her chest for the first time since he’d snapped the cuffs on her wrists. She followed him down the hall, relaxing for the first time in hours. She needed a shower. Desperately. Washing away the horrid smell of sweat and fear that clung to her body would be the first step in her plan to find Solomon Tarik’s killer. Because if she didn’t, they could well lock her up again. And that was not going to happen.  
    They entered the elevator, Stephens pressed a button, and the door dinged closed. She counted the dings for each floor—one for the lower level, two for the ground floor and freedom. She pushed away from where she was leaning against the interior wall of the elevator, but it kept moving. Three dings. Four. Fear squeezed the breath from her lungs. The doors slid open.  
    “Where are you taking me?” Her voice wobbled.  
    Stephens grunted, and paused in front of a conference room—a carpeted conference room. The holding cell had a cement floor. The other floors of the police department were covered in vinyl tile. No carpet. Anywhere. There were several upholstered chairs tucked along the edge of the table, the fabric was a mottled brown, obviously designed not to show spots. This was a long way from the holding cell she’d been in for most of the day. And best of all, she’d spotted a ladies room next door.
    “Detective?” Her tone was sweet enough to trigger a gag reflex. “May I use the ladies room?”  
    “Yeah, go ahead. No one’s here yet, anyway.” He positioned himself outside the door, stance wide, arms crossed. Male posturing so classic it was worthy of an eye roll.
    Jayne kept her eyes down, avoiding the mirrors in the restroom. She didn’t want to chance a glimpse of herself, haggard and scared, because it would probably cause a never-ending meltdown. Not something she could afford until she was safely back in her condo.
    By the time Detective Stephens led her back to the conference room, there were three people seated at the table, all eyes on her.  
    Her heart thudded, skipped, then settled into a frantic beat. She only knew one person. Did that mean her first arrest, the sting operation, had worked? Maybe. Maybe not. And it didn’t account for her second arrest. The need to run sizzled through her blood.
    A bald man with mahogany skin stood and stretched tall. Several inches over six feet. He eyed Stephens. “That’ll be all, Detective.”  
    The dismissal was final.
    Joe Stephens scowled, turned on his heel, and marched from the room. His bitterness left a sour aftertaste in the conference room.
    The tall man stepped forward and shook hands with