“And the driver of the hearse just drove off?”
The question of why bother to complete a report if the officer was just going to recap every point, by point, blinked like a neon sign behind her lids. “No, as I wrote, right here.” She pointed to another neatly printed line on the statement. “The man got out to see if I was okay. . .”
The policeman rested an elbow on the counter and smirked. “Nice of him.”
“I guess,” she agreed, forcing a lift to her lips, putting on her best salesman face. “Listen, the man left me his driver’s license. Said an emergency called him away.”
“Emergencies can happen in the funeral business, I imagine.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers, brow furrowed. "So, a polite runner then?”
Inhaling deeply, Lorna forged on. “I want to talk to you about that, actually.”
The constable stared, barely blinking, so she blurted. “It’s a fake.”
“What’s a fake?”
“The driver’s license,” she confirmed through tight lips.
“How would you know?”
“I didn’t recognize him at first with the beard and everything.” Oh, God, she was rambling. Get a grip. Lorna took a shaky breath. “I know–once knew–the driver I hit. His name is Mitchell Morgan, not Michael Ward as is written here. The picture on this license,” she said moving her own hand to cover the license on the counter, “is him, but that’s not his name. This,” she paused to tap the document with her fingernail, “is a fake.”
“How can you be sure?” His murky brown eyes met hers, clearly skeptical.
She glanced at the picture again, the tips of her fingers still touching the edge of the laminated surface. How could she explain the fact she would never be able to forget Mitchell Morgan’s midnight-blue eyes? Those same expression-filled eyes with just a hint of mischief couldn’t be disguised. “I’m sure.”
The question of why bother to complete a report if the officer was just going to recap every point, by point, blinked like a neon sign behind her lids. “No, as I wrote, right here.” She pointed to another neatly printed line on the statement. “The man got out to see if I was okay. . .”
The policeman rested an elbow on the counter and smirked. “Nice of him.”
“I guess,” she agreed, forcing a lift to her lips, putting on her best salesman face. “Listen, the man left me his driver’s license. Said an emergency called him away.”
“Emergencies can happen in the funeral business, I imagine.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers, brow furrowed. "So, a polite runner then?”
Inhaling deeply, Lorna forged on. “I want to talk to you about that, actually.”
The constable stared, barely blinking, so she blurted. “It’s a fake.”
“What’s a fake?”
“The driver’s license,” she confirmed through tight lips.
“How would you know?”
“I didn’t recognize him at first with the beard and everything.” Oh, God, she was rambling. Get a grip. Lorna took a shaky breath. “I know–once knew–the driver I hit. His name is Mitchell Morgan, not Michael Ward as is written here. The picture on this license,” she said moving her own hand to cover the license on the counter, “is him, but that’s not his name. This,” she paused to tap the document with her fingernail, “is a fake.”
“How can you be sure?” His murky brown eyes met hers, clearly skeptical.
She glanced at the picture again, the tips of her fingers still touching the edge of the laminated surface. How could she explain the fact she would never be able to forget Mitchell Morgan’s midnight-blue eyes? Those same expression-filled eyes with just a hint of mischief couldn’t be disguised. “I’m sure.”