The Vampire's Mail Order Bride(3)

She wasn’t a coward, but…those witnesses in the movies seemed to end up dead about 99% of the time.

Germans eat twice as much chocolate as Americans. She rolled her eyes. Shut up, brain. Now is not the time for useless facts about chocolate. Everyone had their nervous tics, right?

An older, sophisticated woman with an armful of files walked out from one of the back rooms, exuding so much class that Delaney forgot everything that had just happened for a split second.

The woman smiled. “My apologies for the wait. We’re a little understaffed at the moment.”

Tall, with dark hair pulled into a twist, pin-straight bangs and narrow black-rimmed glasses, the woman wore a slim suit in midnight blue and a single strand of gunmetal pearls at her throat. A slick of burgundy lipstick, winged eyeliner and perfect brows completed the look. Those brows lifted slightly as she took Delaney in. “Ah. You’re not here about—never mind, you’re here for the secretarial position, aren’t you? Very good. I’m Adelaide Poirot, and you are?”

Not French, that was for dang sure. Delaney had never felt more like a slob in her entire life. Fortunately, the office phone rang before she had time to respond.

Adelaide rolled her eyes good-naturedly, but her smile thinned with frustration. “I’m afraid I must take that.” She set the files on the front desk. “I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

Delaney nodded.

Adelaide disappeared back into whatever dimension of perfection she’d come out of.

Delaney grabbed a brochure from the stack on the filing cabinet next to her.

Eternamate. Specializing in unique and exceptional arrangements.

Arrangements? There wasn’t a flower in the joint. She opened the brochure.

While Eternamate caters to the particular gentleman, we pride ourselves on providing only the most capable and understanding partners in our arranged matches.

Oh. Those kinds of arrangements.

Many of our couples even fall in love…blah, blah, blah.

Delaney put the brochure back. She needed to call the cops, not find a man. Benny might be dead. She had to tell the police what she’d seen. It was the right thing to do.

Even if she ended up dead too.

Her stomach knotted. She pulled her phone out and stared at the dark screen. How was she going to testify when she couldn’t even find the courage to dial?

Okay, calm down. Anthony Rastinelli didn’t even know she’d been there. How could he? She’d call in the shooting anonymously, then send the video in from some random library computer that couldn’t be traced back to her, and that would be that. She tapped the screen to bring it to life.

Two text messages waiting. She brought them up and almost peed. The first one, the one she’d ignored on the walk home, was from Anthony Rastinelli. But wait…that was well before the shooting. The second one was from her phone company, no doubt telling her the bill was due.

She opened the first message.

D, you left your apron.

Her throat squeezed shut, making it impossible to breathe. When he saw that her apron was gone after he’d texted her about it, how would he not assume she was the one who’d been there? He’d know without a doubt she’d been present for the shooting.

Twenty-seven was too damn young to die. She closed her eyes and tipped her head against the wall. Think. There had to be a way out of this.

Adelaide’s phone conversation carried from the back office. “I have the files together and the women have their matches, but I haven’t sent any of them the travel information yet.”

Travel information? Delaney opened her eyes and straightened. Her gaze went right to the files. Were those the files the woman was talking about? She glanced toward the back. She could hear Adelaide, but not see her, which meant Adelaide couldn’t see Delaney either.

Delaney stuck her phone back into her pocket, snatched the first file off the top of the stack and flipped it open. No picture, just a name. Beatrice Mackenzie, age thirty-three, dog lover, so on and so forth. Delaney skimmed Beatrice’s info until she came to a box near the bottom labeled Matched. In that box was scribbled a man’s name and address. The guy Beatrice had been fixed up with was in Scotland, and she was supposed to meet him in two weeks. Good for her, not so much for Delaney.

She grabbed the next file. No picture in this one either. Maybe they didn’t do pictures? At any rate, this woman, Annabelle Givens, age twenty-eight, had been matched with a guy in Nocturne Falls, Georgia.

Georgia was about thirteen hours away. Maybe more like fourteen with stops for gas and the added factor of traveling with Captain. A long drive however it worked out, but very doable. She could be there by tomorrow afternoon.