Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

Men.
“I don’t know anything.”
He holds up my purse and stares at me. “Really? So you
weren’t at La Cantina last night? This just walked out of your
house and showed up at the scene of a crime?”
I get the sense there’s no video of me at the restaurant.
That the purse—with my ID and phone inside—is the only
thing placing me there. Detective Brown would definitely have
used security camera footage as her trump card to scare me
into talking, but she didn’t.
Fingers crossed, because although I might not be legally
obligated to talk to the police, I have no idea if lying to them is
a crime.
Looking Chris in the eye, I say, “I accidentally left that
handbag on the counter at the dry cleaners the other day. When
I went back for it, it was gone.”
He examines my face in silence for a moment. “You’re
telling me that someone stole your purse and kept all your
stuff in it when they went out for dinner?”
“I have no idea what happened to it between then and now.
May I have it back, please?”
His sigh is heavy. “Nat. Come on. What the heck is going
on with you?”
“I’m just trying to get my purse back.”
His voice gains an edge. “Yeah? So you refusing to talk
has nothing to do with your neighbor?”
My stomach clenches. I swallow, feeling my hands
tremble, wishing I were the kind of person who could lie with
confidence. Sloane would’ve already ripped him a new one
and kicked him to the curb.
Be Sloane.
I lift my chin, pull back my shoulders, and hold out my
hand. “Give me my purse.”