Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

N A T
W
hen I open the door, I find two people standing
on my front step. One of them is an older man
in a police uniform. He’s paunchy and has one
of those red noses that hints at years of heavy drinking. I don’t
recognize him.
The other person is an attractive Black woman in her late
forties wearing business casual dress: tan slacks and a navy
jacket with a white button-up shirt beneath. She wears no
makeup or jewelry, not even earrings. Her fingernails are
unpolished. Her hair is pulled back in a simple bun. Despite
her lack of ornamentation, she gives off an air of effortless
glamour.
I recognize her well.
Her name’s Brown. Detective Doretta Brown, to be
precise.
The woman who led the investigation into David’s
disappearance and never let me forget for a second that she
wasn’t ruling anyone out as a suspect.
Including me.
“Detective Brown. It’s been a while. Do you have news
about David?”
Her eyes narrow slightly as she examines my face.
I bet she can smell the fear on me. The woman’s
intelligence is frightening.
“We’re not here about that, Ms. Peterson.”