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nope, just the head honcho cop who’d accused her of killing Jack.
    Not that she was too worried. She was innocent. Only the guilty worried, right?
    “Sorry,” Nikki said. “I talk to myself a lot.” The nausea pulled at her stomach and she pulled the pink tub closer and looked at the bag of fluid hanging to her left. The doctor said the meds in the IV would “
eventually
” calm her stomach.
    “Maybe you can tell me what ‘yourself’ is saying about what happened tonight.”
    There it was again—the accusation in his tone that was mirrored in his expression. His eyes tightened, hisright eyebrow arched slightly, and he pressed his lips together in a thin line. If he was trying to intimidate her, he could give himself a high five. His disapproving glare was downright daunting. Had they taught him that look in the police academy?
    Maybe I should be worried
. “You really don’t think I did this, do you?” Her stomach roiled again. She eyed her IV. “Eventually” couldn’t arrive soon enough.
    “Did you do it?”
    “No.” She sat up and squared her shoulders, trying to come off as a person with strong character. Of course, that was hard to do when you wore a backless hospital gown and held a Pepto-Bismol–colored, hospital-regulation barf tub in your lap.
    His arched brow said he didn’t believe her.
    What could she say to convince him? Or maybe she shouldn’t say anything. She considered asking for a lawyer, but decided to just puke instead.
    Or she should say, she decided to go through the motions of puking.
    When the dry heaves passed, he handed her a damp cloth. She raised her eyes to his dark brown gaze, hoping the suspicion had vanished. Nope. Obviously, the detective could be nice to people he considered murderers.
    “Why would I put him in my trunk?” she blurted out and used the cloth to wipe her face in case she had any residual drool from her newly acquired pastime.
    His gaze grew colder. “Why don’t you tell me?”
    “Why don’t you leave the room for a minute?” The nurse, a full-figured African-American woman, walked into the room. “I need to get some blood.” The nurse shot the detective a cutting look and he left.
    Nikki looked at the nurse. “I didn’t kill my ex.”
    “Honey, the way I see it, if your ex was anywhere near as bad as mine, or as rude as that cop was to me when he brought you in here, you did the world a favor.”
    Watching the blood fill the vial, Nikki remembered Jack’s shirt and fought another wave of nausea.
    When the nurse left, Nikki leaned back and closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she heard someone clear his throat. She opened her eyes and was hit again by the accusation in the detective’s eyes.
    “I think you were about to explain how your ex-husband’s body got into your trunk.”
    “No, I wasn’t about to explain that. Because I didn’t put Jack in my trunk. I didn’t shoot him. I don’t own a gun. Don’t even know how to shoot one.” She looked at her hands. “Shouldn’t you be doing one of those powder tests on my hands?”
    He cocked his head to the side and studied her. Hard. He looked as if he was about to say something profound, something important. She held her breath and waited.
    And waited.
    When he didn’t speak, she dropped back against the pillow. Who knew puking took so much energy?
    He pulled a notepad from his pocket, jotted something down, and then raised his eyes again. “You know the grocery store cashier said you were talking to her about killing your ex?”
    “I wasn’t talking to her, I was talking to myself. She just assumed I was speaking to her. I mutter when I’m upset.”
    “Were you upset enough to kill him?”
    “He stuck me with the bill at Venny’s. Do you know how expensive that is? So, yeah, I was furious. Furious enough to say I wanted to kill him, but… but I’m not a killer. I even use catch-and-release mouse traps.”
    The crinkle in his brow confused her. Did