Page 51 of Mountain Defender
A quiver hit her stomach, which she tried not to react to while the officers explained what they needed from them at the station.
She nodded. “We’ll be right behind you.”
As soon as they turned to take off for their vehicles, she pivoted toward Bryson. He moved his hand away.
“What’s the problem?” She studied his pinched brow.
“I work with law enforcement all the time. I’ve never been asked to come in for questioning.”
“To answer questions—not be questioned.”
He lifted a brow. “If that’s the case, why not ask us right here?”
Okay, he had a point. “I’ll call Eric.”
“And I’ll call Rafe.”
ChapterTwelve
Alexia was separated from him. Put in separate fucking rooms for interrogation.
Tripp gripped the edge of the table so hard that he expected a chunk to bust off in his hand.
He stared at the detective sitting across from him long enough to make the man squirm.
“You don’t have any cause to keep me here. I know my Miranda rights.”
The detective nodded. “We know your background and what you do. We’re hoping that you’ll just answer a few questions for us regarding your niece’s case.”
“What are you asking Alexia?”
He shifted in his seat. “That’s not up for discussion.”
“Isn’t it now?” His voice came out low, deadly.
He spread his hands. “Look, we just have a few questions and then you’re free to leave.”
Tripp leaned back in his seat, causing it to creak under his bulk. Folding his arms, he grated, “Fine.”
The detective shuffled some papers as if searching for his notes. “Can you state your relationship to Kelsey Franklin?”
Tripp all but rolled his eyes. Giving him a bland look, he sized the guy up. “How many years you been doing this job?”
He flipped his gaze to Tripp’s. “Long enough.”
“Long enough to what? Know that you guys bungled the investigation and messed up the crime scene and now you’re looking to pin a crime on someone like me? All by acting like you can’t quite remember particulars? I guess I see your point—get somebody in custody and the people of this shitty small town can sleep easy in their beds.”
“Just answer the question.”
“I’m her uncle,” he bit off with enough force to knock a fly off a pile of shit. Which was exactly what this interrogation was—total shit.
“And where were you the night of Miss Franklin’s murder?”
He leveled him in a look. “I can’t tell you that.”
A smug expression stole over the detective’s face. “And why is that?”
Tripp leaned forward and planted his folded arms on the table, looking the guy dead in the eyes. “Because,” he said slowly, “it’s classified. I was a SEAL, and we don’t talk about ops. Especially with people who have low-level clearance.”