CHAPTER EIGHT
“Ms. Royal?” Clarice’s voice came through the speakerphone the next day. “Detective Dunleavy is here to speak to you.”
Osana dropped the papers she’d gotten from her file cabinet and raced to her desk, pushing the button. “What did you say, Clarice?”
“Detective Dunleavy of homicide is here to speak to you about Preston Kinard.”
“Shit.” Osana’s heart pounded. “Send him in.” She wobbled to her chair, lightheaded. “God.” She sat, ready to puke any second. “Keep calm, Osana.” She clasped her manicured fingers. “You got this.”
Clarice walked inside followed by a hefty, mocha-toned black man of at least six five, whose shadow could cover Santa Barbara.
“Here you are, Detective.” Clarice smiled and left.
“Ms. Royal.” The deep tides of his voice could envy thunder. “It’s nice
