Page 24 of Win a Date with a Detective

He writes something down. “Then what happened?”

“She insisted.”

“All right.”

“So I put it on.”

“Then?”

“I admired it.”

“Then?”

“I gave it back.”

He pauses. “You’re sure?”

I stare at him. “Of course I am.”

“Can you describe exactly how you returned it?”

I frown. “Well, I took it off my finger.”

“Okay.”

“And I gave it to her.”

“Which hand did you use?”

That’s a very good question. I look down at my hands. Then back at him.

“Do you know, I’ve watched approximately eight thousand hours of true-crime documentaries, and nobody ever mentions how difficult it is to remember which hand you used to return somebody’s jewelry.”

The detective doesn’t smile. Tough crowd.

“I think it was my right hand.”

He writes something down. “You only think?”

“Well, now you’re making me second-guess myself!”

He sighs.

By the time I’m allowed to return to the restaurant, I’m beginning to regret every true-crime documentary I’ve ever watched.

Mostly because I’ve spent the last twenty minutes imagining all the ways innocent people accidentally make themselves look guilty.

And I’m apparently exceptionally talented at it.

Bronson is waiting for me near the bar.

He takes one look at my face and immediately approaches. “How’d it go?”

“I think I need a lawyer.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

“Not because I did anything wrong! Because I apparently have no idea how to answer questions without sounding like a criminal.”