Page 38 of Without a Clue

I frown at Neena, who is looking at me like she’s never noticed before how suspicious five-foot-even girls who overbuy stocking gifts for friends’ cats are.

Really, Neena?

Et tu, Brute?

My room is in tatters from rushing around all day. Clothes are strewn across the floor. Drink cups empty and discarded.

Turns out, neat freak behavior has no manners.

How neurotic can you be, Pip? A man just died.

And yet I begin hastily picking up papers and tidying up my bed as Carragan steps inside.

“Here. Let me just—” I begin, snatching up a pillow from the floor, arms loaded.

“Tell me, Miss Dupont, when exactly did the hate for your boss begin?” Carragan cuts in, pen in hand.

I stop abruptly. A pillow falls. “Excuse me?”

“That was your motive, wasn’t it?” he continues, scribbling something down. “Hatred? Or perhaps . . . jealousy? Jealousy tends to be a big hitter when dealing with someone this successful. Unless . . . did you have anything to gain, perhaps? Has he put you in his will?”

He says it like he’s musing aloud, not even thinking for a moment about exactly with whom he’s talking. Like I’m some . . . some random coworker instead of a real, live, absolutely affected person.

Ugh. I’ve read about this type of investigative questioning a thousand times, this aggressive rushing in like a bull on fire, but when it’s directed at you about a person you care about, it hits entirely differently. A fire builds in the pit of my stomach. A shot of adrenaline zips around my body, desperate to defend myself against such unholy accusations.

It’s stupid.

It’s stupid and I know what he’s doing. But I can’t help myself.

“How dare you insinuate something so . . .” I fumble for the words. “So . . . false about me. I have been nothing but dedicated to Hugh for five years. He was a friend—”

“What does being friends have to do with anything here? Half the murders I come across are people who were ‘friends.’ And I imagine some half-witted gold digger running around getting him coffee like yourself—”

I round my shoulders back.

This man has absolutely no right.

NO. RIGHT.

I point a finger at his chest.

Actually, if I’m being totally honest, I irresponsibly and irrationally put my finger on this security officer’s chest, and I push a little. “Now look here, sir. I have read all the books Hugh’s written. All seventy-two of them, multiple times. I myself have edited twenty of them. I have spent a thousand nights working through detective dialogues just. Like. This. And I can tell you right now you will absolutely not play such a petty, aggressive trick on me to get me to crack, because there is nothing to crack. And if there was something to crack, you’d better be smarter about it, because believe me, after working under Hugh for this many years, I know every trick in the book. So please, at the very least, question me, but don’t insult my intelligence.”

Carragan and I share in a sort of stare-down for some time. I make sure he’s the first to look away.

“Fine,” he says, flipping a page in his notebook. The tiniest smile flicks on his lips. “If you’re so smart, Miss Dupont, lead the way. Break it down for me.”

I holster my finger back at my side. “Break what down?”

“What you think I should ask. How I get can the information out of you that I need. You think you can do that, right?”

“Absolutely,” I say with less certainty. I cross my arms over my chest.

“Then do it. Do my job.” There’s sarcasm in his tone.

I hesitate for a blink, then forge ahead. What option do I have? My dignity is on the line.

My mind flips through various conversations I’ve pored over in Hugh’s books, lands on the first question I can remember, and I wing it. “Alright. I’d say, ‘Let’s begin by walking me through your day. How did your trip begin, Miss Dupont?’ And to that I’d say . . .”