The Echo Killing: A gripping debut crime thriller you won’t be able to put down!. Christi Daugherty

juice and rum in that baby, it’s diabetes in a glass.’ Bonnie stretched her arms above her head with a groan. ‘Man, this has been a long night. I’ve got to get a real job.’

      At this hour, only the most determined drinkers remained, wrestling their demons one glass at a time. The music had been turned down and the air felt cooler.

      They found one of the side rooms completely empty. It was largely dominated by a pool table.

      Motioning for Harper to join her, Bonnie lifted herself up onto the green felt top.

      ‘Get up here and tell me what’s going on.’

      Harper climbed up next to her, less gracefully. Bonnie had put a lot of rum in those drinks.

      ‘Nothing’s going on,’ she said, stretching out her legs until her toes brushed the far edge of the table. ‘It’s all good.’

      ‘Harper.’ Bonnie shot her a look. ‘You’ve been sitting in my bar drinking pink drinks for over an hour without saying a word to anyone. In tourist season. Something’s going on.’

      Harper smiled. Bonnie always could see right through her.

      ‘There was a shooting.’ Harper made a vague gesture with her drink. ‘I got a little too close.’

      Bonnie took a sip of beer, studying her narrowly.

      ‘How close is too close?’

      Thinking of the windows shattering above her head, Harper held up her hand, finger and thumb two inches apart.

      ‘That close, I think.’

      Bonnie’s eyebrows winged up. ‘What the hell, Harper? You’re supposed to write about crime. Not get yourself shot.’

      ‘It was fine,’ Harper insisted. ‘I wasn’t in danger.’

      ‘Bullshit,’ Bonnie said bluntly. ‘It scared you. I heard it in your voice on the phone. I saw it on your face when you walked in the bar. Don’t lie to me.’

      Pulling the tiny paper umbrella from her glass, Harper furled and unfurled it absently. While she’d been waiting for Bonnie, she’d had a lot of time to think about what had happened. And to question her own motives.

      Through the protective haze of alcohol, she found herself asking a question she would normally never have said aloud.

      ‘Tell me the truth. Do you think I’m self-destructive?’

      Bonnie hesitated too long.

      ‘Come on,’ she said, finally, her tone softening. ‘You know you have good reasons for what you do.’

      It was true. But it also wasn’t a no.

      Out of nowhere, Harper thought of Luke, standing on the street like the god of justice, looking at her in a way he never had before. Like he was worried about her.

      She’d had some time to think about him, tonight, too.

      ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I think I might have a crush on a cop.’

      She could sense Bonnie relaxing as the serious moment passed.

      ‘Well, hell, honey.’ She nudged Harper’s shoulder. ‘Get yourself a piece of that law-and-order action.’

      Harper shook her head. ‘I can’t. I write about cops. I’m not allowed to have crushes on them. It’s a …’ she sought the words from the drunken recesses of her mind, ‘… conflict of interference. No.’ She blinked. ‘Interest.’

      ‘Really?’ Bonnie looked doubtful. ‘Come on. What can they do?’

      ‘He could get demoted for it,’ she assured her. ‘Cops take this stuff seriously.’

      Bonnie made a derisive sound.

      ‘Since when do you give a damn about rules, Harper? The police don’t have cameras in your bedroom. Actually, I’ve been thinking for a while now you needed to get laid. When was the last time you had any?’

      Caught off guard, Harper found she wasn’t sure of the answer to that question.

      ‘Last year? That California guy, I guess?’

      Bonnie stared at her as if she’d announced she liked doing it with cats.

      ‘Harper, that was nearly two years ago. This can’t be. I’m going to get Carlo to do you right this instant. Carlo!’

      She half-turned toward the bar, raising her voice. Carlo, who was stacking glasses in the dishwasher, looked up enquiringly, muscles bulging through the sleeves of his black Library T-shirt.

      ‘Ignore her, Carlo!’ Harper yelled hastily. ‘It’s nothing.’

      Laughing, she tugged Bonnie’s arm. ‘Behave yourself.’

      ‘He’d do it,’ Bonnie assured her. ‘I know he thinks you’re cute.’

      ‘I’m not cute.’ For some reason, Harper found the assertion outrageous. ‘I’m introverted and I never remember to wear makeup. I’ve seen the women Carlo hangs out with. I am definitely not his type.’

      Bonnie waved her beer. ‘Everyone is Carlo’s type. But if he’s not yours …’ She looked around the mostly empty bar. ‘There’s always Junior.’

      ‘Will you stop?’ Harper pleaded. ‘Look. I promise, I’ll sex someone up. Soon.’

      ‘Do the cop,’ Bonnie ordered. ‘You like him. What’s he like? I’ll bet he’s all Texas Rangery. Tall with lots of muscles; not much of a man for words. Takes command of the situation.’

      ‘Shut up.’ Harper’s face heated.

      ‘Oh my God, I’m right.’ Bonnie’s laugh was delighted. ‘I want to meet this guy.’

      Harper was starting to feel dizzy. She wasn’t sure whether it was the mai tais or the conversation.

      ‘We have got to stop talking about this,’ she moaned, lying down on the table. The felt top was soft and she turned to press her face against it. It smelled soothingly of chalk and dust.

      ‘Don’t fall asleep on the pool table, Harper. Junior might carry you home and have his wicked way with you.’

      Bonnie leaned over her, the tips of her long hair tickling Harper’s face.

      ‘Anyway, it’s decided. You’ve got to get busy with this cop. And soon.’ She smoothed Harper’s hair gently away from her face. It felt nice. Harper closed her eyes.

      ‘It’ll fix all that ails you,’ Bonnie promised.

      Harper thought of Luke Walker standing there holding that gun. And wondered if maybe she was right.

       Chapter Six

      The next afternoon, Harper arrived at the police station at four o’clock, feeling like a truck had run over her face during the night.

      At the edge of downtown on a quiet street, the police headquarters looked like a nineteenth-century jail, which is exactly what it was. Neat rows of small, arched windows marched across the brick walls, all of them overlooking a sun-baked parking lot that was, at this moment, completely full.

      Muttering under her breath, Harper found a parking place on the street around the corner and fed the meter before hurrying out of the bright sunlight to take a shortcut through the blessed shade of the Colonial Park Cemetery.

      Sheltered by the long branches of ancient oak trees, the old burial ground behind the station was more park than cemetery. Ever since she was a child, she’d loved it. You could read the city’s history in its inscriptions:

       James Wilde.