The fear didn’t go away, though. In fact, it expanded. “Uh, you can use my office as long as you need.” Guts slid his bulk from behind the desk and exited as quickly as he could. All the moisture in Arie’s body relocated from her mouth to her kidneys. If she were to die now for the second time, it would either be from dehydration or embarrassment at wetting herself in front of Connor O’Shea. The detective gestured to the hard-backed chair in front of the desk, the same chair Arie had interviewed in a month or so ago. Time flies. “I have a few questions for you.” O’Shea didn’t wait for Arie’s nod before continuing. “Let’s start with last night. What were you doing with Wyatt Striker?” “We were . . . I guess you could call it a date.” “A date.” It wasn’t a question. “And how did that happen?”
