He nodded and went to the door.
“Wait.” I winced, only starting to realize the kind of trouble I was in. He was letting the cops in. I wanted to run. Wolf started itching, and I didn’t need that now. “I don’t want to tell them what happened.”
He looked thoughtful a moment, then said, “Okay.” He glanced out the still-open door and gestured someone inside. Detective Hardin.
O’Farrell took a seat at the table and looked busy with his briefcase. Hardin closed the door and remained standing by the wall, arms crossed, grouchy.
She said, “What was that hit man doing in your apartment?”
That wasn’t a good place to start the conversation. Was there a good place to start this conversation?
I glanced at O’Farrell. He shrugged, noncommittal, and continued shuffling papers. Did that mean it was okay to talk or not? I could refuse to answer. Mainly because I didn’t know what to say, and not because I was hiding anything.
“I called him. I was pretty beat up earlier, and I needed help. We’ve been in touch. Professional consulting.”
“No hard feelings over what happened last month, then?”
“I guess not.”
“What was the dead guy doing at your apartment?”
I swallowed, my throat dry. O’Farrell said, “Could we get some water in here? Thanks.”
With an even more surly frown, Hardin leaned out and called to someone. A moment later a couple of cups of water arrived.
This all just wasted time.
“You going to answer me?” Hardin said. Her hair was sticking out in all directions, and her eyes were shadowed. She hadn’t gotten any sleep either.
“He—he was waiting,” I said, stammering. “For me. He wanted to hurt me.” I took another drink of water and ducked my gaze. I was having trouble talking.
“Why?”
I couldn’t answer that. I couldn’t say it. It would take too long to explain.
“Then can you tell me who else was there?”
I couldn’t answer that either. Once again, I looked at O’Farrell for help. Hardin looked at him, too.
He said to Hardin, “I’m assuming she hasn’t been Mirandized? She doesn’t have to answer any question she doesn’t want to. She’s here as a voluntary witness.” Voluntary? Nominally.
“At this stage,” Hardin said. She turned back to me. “It wasn’t a wild dog that bit that guy’s head off, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t you. They found blood under the victim’s fingernails and in his mouth. I’m willing to believe that it’s yours and that part of your story checks out. If it does, it means you were there and you probably know who did it. Was it that rogue werewolf you’ve been telling me about? The one we’ve been looking for in the mauling deaths?”
“No,” I said, forgetting myself. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the rogue.” This was all inside the pack and none of her business.
Hardin started pacing. “Ms. Norville. Kitty. Right now you’re a witness, not an accessory to murder. Don’t make me have to change that assessment.”
“What?”
“If you know who did it and you don’t tell me, I can charge you with being an accessory to murder.”
“That’s a bluff,” O’Farrell said. “The most you could charge without more evidence is obstruction of justice.”
What the hell were they talking about?
Hardin plowed on, ignoring him. “If you’re trying to protect whoever did this, you’re guilty of a crime.”
“It wasn’t . . . like that. Zan made the challenge; he was asking for it—this isn’t . . . this isn’t . . . criminal.”