I wasn’t going to stop him. They were creative, gentle and also very dominant lovers. And we hadn’t had sex in the kitchen. Yet.
When Nix didn’t offer a witty reply about getting me out of my panties, we both looked to him.
“What’s wrong?” Donovan asked.
Nix looked pissed. His hair was messed up, his jaw clenched, his shoulders tense. He had his pistol on his hip right next to his badge.
“Seaborn lied.”
Donovan’s hands slipped out from under my shirt and he stepped back.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Donovan asked.
The arrest had been all over the local news outlets. TV, radio, internet, newspaper. People were relieved to know the murderer had been found, that it had been a crime of passion not random.
“They installed one of those red-light cameras on Main by the library,” he said.
Donovan nodded. “I remember. Pops promised it was a way to make crossing the street safer.”
“The photos and tickets are issued once a week. The technician went through the pile today. Guess who’s on it?”
“Seaborn?” I asked.
Nix shook his head as he went to the fridge to get a beer. “Erin Mills.”
“When?”
He popped the top, guzzled a third of the bottle in one go. “The night she was killed. Miranski said the photo was stamped at twelve-thirteen a.m.”
I’d gotten home around eleven-thirty and had been asleep at that time. “If she was in her car then, that means she wasn’t at the house.”
“Seaborn said he killed her at midnight.”
“Holy shit,” Donovan murmured.
“Wait.” I held up my hand. “If Seaborn said he killed her at midnight but the traffic camera captured her alive and downtown almost fifteen minutes later, that means—”
“He’s lying. He didn’t do it.”
My stomach dropped at what he was saying. “Then who killed Erin?”
Nix shrugged, set his beer on the counter. “He’s still out there.”