Sappy Heartwood

5. Sweet fuck all.

If you don't ask the question, you will never find the answer. 

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Chapter Five

Sweet fuck all.

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For a moment, he stared at me; his reddish brown orbs contained no emotions, making his face very difficult to read.

"Hmm," was all he said.

"What do you mean, hmm?" I raised a brow while I watched men wheel a stretcher past us and towards Mrs Smith. "I just told you I know where Rachel's p—"

"I know, I'm not deaf. I simply cannot figure out how."

"How what?"

He narrowed his eyes. "How would you, a nobody working at a cafe, know the location of Miss Smith's device when none of us do?"

The hell did he just call me?

A nobody. My inner voice whispered. Thank you very much! I know what he said, stupid voice.

"This nobody has an excellent reason." I smiled as wide as I could.

His eyes narrowed harder, if that were possible. "Which is?"

"Hmm," I mimicked his stupid English accent. "Let us call it female intuition."

"Am I to believe you know the location based on your gut feeling?" Okay, so maybe he had a point, and judging by his tone, I'd say he believed me as much as I believe in Santa.

I could always tell him the truth...Yeah, nah, I think I'll pass on that; I don't plan on being admitted to a loony bin anytime soon.

"Yes, now do you want to know or not?"

He seemed to contemplate momentarily, and I was confident he would dismiss it altogether. To my surprise, he didn't. "If you are wrong about this, you understand I will have no choice but to arrest you, yes?"

Now, I'm sure being arrested by this not-so-fine gentleman would be a nightmare to someone else. However, in my case, I feel that I would very much enjoy being detained by him. Half of me hopes Rachel's phone isn't there, while the other half feels quite the opposite. On the other hand, what would my parents think knowing I have been arrested? My father, I'm sure, wouldn't care; we rarely see him as it is, but my mum, well, she'd go ape shit.

"Ugh," I mentally facepalmed myself. "Let's get this over with."

Nodding his head, Mr Dirty Dickhead Daniels motioned for me to start walking. Obviously, I did. I led him down the hallway, our footsteps almost silent on the soft maroon carpet until we entered the laundry. Thanks to the royal purple-coloured tiles, my shoes squeaked upon stepping on them. Golden-painted walls reflected sunlight, and it was probably the most excellent laundry room I have ever seen. I might be a tad biased, being that I helped design it.

I could tell the choice of paint caught the detective's eye, but he kept quiet as I led him through the back door, which opened to the back veranda.

"It's over there," extending my left arm, I pointed to a rose bush roughly five metres away. It was to the left of the path leading to the back shed. "Under that—"

"Then go get it." He said, removing two gloves within a plastic sleeve from his leather jacket's inner pocket and handing them to me.

"Excuse me? Why don't you fucking get it yourself?" Without thinking, I snatched the gloves from him.