Chapter 7 — Well, that's annoying.

Nancy stared down at the shattered glass. A chilly wind blew through the empty door frame into the store, sending more of the receipts that had been stacked neatly beside the computer fluttering to the floor. Unbelievable. On top of everything else, someone decides to break into her store? Thankfully George had arrived at the same time she had, and volunteered to go buy plywood and whatever else they might need to board up the door. Grabbing a broom from the closet Nancy began shoving the glass over into a pile. She should report it.

She should. But she didn't want to. It was so ridiculous. If this had happened last week, she wouldn't have hesitated to call it in. She would have been grateful to have Detective Hardy assigned to the case. He was a good cop, she could tell. But now… She didn't want the police crawling all over the place again asking questions. She didn't want to think about Marisol any more, didn't want her ruining her life all over again. Letting out a primal, shrieking scream, Nancy threw the broom against the wall. She covered her face with her hands and tried to take several slow, deep breaths. She thought she'd let go of the rage at least, if not the grief or bitterness. But it was clearly still there, bubbling under the surface.

Marisol Williams. The brunette fifteen year old girl that had smiled shyly out of the photo her parents had given Nancy when they asked her to find their daughter. High school had changed her. She'd gotten mixed up with the wrong sort. Claimed she loved this boy and was going to be with him. And then disappeared. Nancy had tracked her down after a couple months, but no one had been able to convince her to go home. Then that last night…she and Ned had been in the city for a lawyer-y thing. She'd suggested swinging by Marisol's apartment one last time to try and talk to her. Worst decision she'd ever made.

And now Marisol turns out to be the victim in the dumpster? Nancy ran a hand through her hair, and sighed. It felt like she was caught in a never ending spiral of tragedy. In that moment she wondered if, given the chance, she would have killed the girl herself. She probably should have said something to Detective Hardy as soon as he mentioned Marisol's name yesterday. But she was too stunned. How had George even known the girl? And now with the break-in Nancy hadn't even had a chance to ask her about it.

George and her grandmother had been so kind and welcoming after she'd moved in that Nancy had finally given in to the persistent questions about what had brought her to the neighborhood and spilled the whole ugly story. It was the last time she'd completely broken down about it, and she'd been so horrified by her own behavior that she'd avoided her neighbors for some time after that. They didn't give up though, invitations from them and other houses on the street kept coming. And then George had applied to work at the store part time, her cheerfulness and strong work ethic finally eroding some of the shell that Nancy had been hiding under. But the whole time they'd been neighbors and with everything Nancy had shared, neither George nor her grandmother, Carmen, had mentioned knowing the girl. Why?

But George had been able to identify her. That was almost as shocking. Nancy truly hadn't recognized Marisol when they'd wheeled that gurney in and pulled back the edges of the body bag. The march of time and her chosen lifestyle had altered her from the picture. And honestly, Nancy was also unable to fathom the idea that Marisol could upset her life any more than she had done. Of course not saying anything was a stupid decision in retrospect. They were bound to come across the accident in Marisol's background check. Heck they'd probably already done a background check on her too. Maybe it had been a test? Maybe they'd already known and were just dropping the victim's name to see what Nancy would say.

Nancy made a face and looked over the mess of glass and paper again. There was no point in overthinking it. She needed to report the break in and then tell the detectives the truth. Pulling out her phone she heard the crunch of shoes on broken glass and spun around to see Frank's sober brown eyes taking in the room with that searching gaze of his, before settling it on her.

"I was just about to call and report this," she said, cringing inside at how defensive she sounded.

"Anything else you wanted to report?" his brother asked cheerfully from the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets like he was here for a casual chat.

Aaaand they definitely know about the car accident, Nancy thought ruefully. "I should probably have a lawyer present before I speak with you," she said, ignoring him and focusing on the darker, more serious Hardy.

"Probably," Frank nodded. He hesitated a moment and then pulled out his wallet and fished out a business card. "Chester Morton is a good attorney if you don't already have one."

Nancy stared at him, ignoring the white card extended towards her. She didn't know what to say. That was not standard police procedure. But she was going to need a lawyer. Carson Drew, one of the top attorneys in Illinois, also conveniently her father, was officially retired, and the last thing in the world she wanted to do was call him and explain that the girl involved in Ned's death had been murdered and then ask who he might recommend to represent her because she was in all likelihood a suspect in her death.

Detective Hardy very unhelpfully stayed silent, though some part of her wanted him to say something. It's going to be ok. I'm sorry this is happening. You're not really a suspect. Trust me. But his face was completely unreadable. As the awkward silence dragged on, Frank finally stepped forward and laid the card on the countertop. "He's expecting your call. If, um, the retainer is too high, just remind Chet that he owes me a favor," he added.

"Because that's not a conflict of interest," the brother muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

"I think it's only a conflict of interest if he's also planning to pay for him," Nancy said dryly, looking at the card. As she looked up, Frank wore a small, crooked smile, and his brother had raised a skeptical eyebrow. "For the record I can afford my own attorney. I will give Mr. Morton a call and then come down to the station to answer any questions," she added.

"Good," said the blond Hardy decisively, tugging a notebook from his breast pocket. "Now let's get the details of this break-in."

Frank nodded his agreement. "What time did you arrive at the store this morning?"

"About fifteen minutes ago, just before seven," Nancy answered, glancing at the clock on the wall.

"Was anything stolen?"

"The register was forced open and they'd taken the hundred dollars I keep in small bills for change. There wasn't any other money in there. Most of our transactions are on cards." Another gust of wind whipped through the store and Nancy shivered, wishing she'd worn a heavier sweater. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and turned away from the detectives, picking up the miscellaneous papers that were decorating the floor amid the shards of glass.

"Ms. Drew, do you know of anyone who might have a grudge against you?" The brother detective asked.

She straightened up and set the papers on the counter, grabbing a nearby coffee mug to hold them in place. Clever boy. The question was technically about the robbery, but could easily slip into her sharing too much information about the car accident without a lawyer present. They would both be fools not to see her as a suspect. And nothing about the men seemed to indicate they were fools. But she wasn't a fool either. "Detective Hardy, I think it best not to say anything else for now," she replied with a tight smile. "George should be back shortly with the wood to board up the door. Once things are cleaned up here and this lawyer's office is open, I will call him and then go with you to the station to make whatever statements you think are necessary."

This time it was Joseph Hardy's face that was unreadable, but Frank gave her an almost imperceptible nod of approval. "Then we'll see you at the station—"

Seeing George pull into the parking lot with a piece of plywood hanging out of the trunk, Frank headed for the parking lot. "After we help fix the door," he called over his shoulder.

Joe made a call to the station to send someone down to collect fingerprints from the door frame, computer, and cash drawer. Then he and Frank fit the plywood to the frame while Nancy and George cleaned up the broken glass.

"So did you specifically call tall, dark and silent for help when you found the door busted?" George whispered, smirking as Nancy jerked her head towards her.

"No," she hissed, glancing quickly over to make sure Frank hadn't heard that. "Don't be ridiculous. He came by because…" Her voice trailed away. "Well, once they knew her name it didn't take more than a background check to connect us."

"I didn't say anything to the cops about you…about that," George protested quickly. "Honest!"

"Don't worry about it," Nancy sighed, shaking her head. "I should have said something the minute he told me her name. I was just so shocked. I hadn't recognized her at all."

"Drugs will do that," George said morosely, raking a pile of glass into the dustpan. "My dad looked like a completely different person to the guy in Gran's photos."

"Um, George," Nancy said, lowering her voice even more, so the detectives couldn't overhear, "how did you know Marisol? How were you able to identify her?"

George frowned down at the glass at her feet. "I knew her a long time ago, before you moved in. I didn't say anything when we found out about…about your accident because we didn't want to make things worse."

Nancy reached under a chair to sweep up a few stray shards. She supposed that made sense. But the girl in the dumpster hadn't looked anything like the high school girl she'd tracked down. How had George recognized her when she was so changed?

"Well, I think that about does it," Frank said, interrupting her train of thought. "It should hold up just fine until you can order new glass or a new door or whatever you need."

"Thank you," Nancy said, trying not to smile as he gave the door an almost parental sort of pat. "I'll finish up here and probably be at the station in a few hours"

He nodded to her and left with his brother in tow.

"George, I'm going to need you to close up today," Nancy sighed, dumping the last of the glass into the trash can.

"That's fine, but I lost my key," George said, beginning to shuffle through the pile of receipts. She looked up at Nancy abruptly, her face stricken.

"It's not a problem," Nancy said, trying to sound reassuring. "You can use my keys." George stayed silent and Nancy frowned. "Hey, I don't think that has anything to do with the break-in, if that's what you're worried about. If someone had had your keys they wouldn't need to bother to break in, would they?"

"Yeah, I guess that's true," George said softly, looking back down the papers in her hand.

"And now I have to call a lawyer," Nancy announced, tapping her fingers on the business card Frank had left on the counter.

"They don't think you're a suspect, do they?" George asked, her voice shocked. "They didn't tell me I needed a lawyer."

Nancy looked over at George, who was staring at her with a horrified expression. "Hey, it's not a big deal," she said firmly. "I'm not under arrest or anything. Detective Hardy even recommended a lawyer, so at least I don't have to call the guy from the billboard on 7th," she added teasingly. "He looks like Fred MacMurray. No way I could trust him. Did you ever see Double Indemnity?"

A confused look came over George's face. "I worry about you sometimes, Boss."

"You always worry about me," Nancy replied, shaking her head with a teasing smile. "It's annoying."