Death Stretch Read Online Free Page B

jumped out and ran to my porch. I might've been charmed with his actions but being locked in the backseat ticked me off. Royally. This “he who shall be obeyed” crap rubbed me raw.
    Johnson stomped back to the car. Uh, oh, trouble. His red face and hunched shoulders clued me in. I inched to the middle of the seat, ignoring the shiny brown stain next to me. Matt Pulaski lowered the window as his partner walked up. “What's wrong?”
    Johnson waved his large hand at me. “Her.”
    Uh, oh, not trouble. Deep shit.
    “What did I tell you?”
    I wondered if his eyes were loaded, because I sensed a heat-seeking missile. “About what and which time?”
    I spotted Pulaski's grin in the rearview mirror. I suppressed my own and tried my innocent expression on Johnson.
    “Didn't I tell you to lock your damn door?”
    “I did.” Did I? I couldn't remember and that disturbed me. “I'm pretty sure I did.”
    Pulaski was already out of the car. “You want to take a look.”
    Dirk nodded. Both detectives drew their guns and headed for my home. My home.
    My throat grew dry. My imagination hit overdrive. Why would anyone break in?
    The scrapes on my hands vied with sandpaper-dry eyes, and a lump the size of a baby Komodo dragon formed in my throat. I kicked the back of the seat, forgetting the protective steel mesh, and added a sore foot to my list of injuries.
    A week passed. Okay, about three minutes, but every second seemed like an hour. The cops finally exited my bungalow and holstered their guns. Pulaski nodded at Dirk and trotted to my closest neighbor's house. He wouldn't find anyone home, but I kept my mouth shut. My self-appointed hero placed his hand on the car roof and leaned down.
    “Let me out of here.” My voice sounded like a caged animal's.
    “I'm thinking we should keep you in protective custody for your own good, sweetheart.”
    My lungs seized up, but held enough air for a little tantrum. “I'm not your sweetheart. Cripes sake, we just met.” That out, I breathed free. “Besides, you said I'm a material witness, remember?”
    I lost steam. “Not only that, I want to see my house. How bad is it?” My wimpy tone made me cringe, but the question was already out there.
    “ Nichts .” Pulaski's voice threw me because I hadn't seen him return.
    Nicks? Huh?
    “Nothing? You sure?” Dirk asked.
    Pulaski nodded.
    “Okay then.” Dirk opened my door and extended his hand.
    “I'm scraped, not helpless.”
    They exchanged grins. Dirk dropped his hand. “Habit. Most folks sitting in the back are handcuffed.”
    My face heated as I climbed out. I hurried toward the house, scrapes and bruises forgotten—then stopped at the threshold, uncertain. Pulling in a big breath, I pushed open the door. Behind me Cop Sexy's presence sent waves of heat up my spine .
    Papers and magazines covered most surfaces. Haphazard piles of books topped the magazines. The incriminating “giving head” magazine article lay open on the couch. My gaze ran from the overflowing bookshelves to the dying hanging plants to the medium-thick dust layer covering the tables. My sweaty yoga clothes sat in a plastic grocery bag on the floor.
    I exhaled. Nothing wrong. Well, nothing that some cleaning wouldn't fix.
    “Couldn't tell for sure, but the place looks the same as it did earlier.” His tone sounded amused. “Is anything out of place? Or missing?” I turned in time to see him eyeing the magazine—still open to the “head” article .
    My back went up. “Hey, I like to read.” I strode to the couch, closed the magazine and tossed it face down on the table.
    “I see. You’ve been reading that same article for a while.”
    My fingers itched to snatch him bald. Bless his dark, trouble-making heart.
    “Ms. Sheridan, would you please check the rest of your home while we're here?” Pulaski's voice of reason kicked me into gear.
    Ignoring Dirk, I limped through the rest of my bungalow. Nothing seemed out of place, but I felt uneasy. I