The Pawn of the Phoenix (The Memory Collector Series Book 2)

by Jamie McLachlan

  “Find something you like?” Damn, it will probably be me who detonates first.

  He ignores my comment. “I had expected you to revel in Anthony’s death.” His expression softens infinitesimally, but, coming from him, it’s quite the leap from his usual impassive façade. “If I’m not mistaken, it seems as if you are actually sad.”

  “Why do you always seem to expect me to rejoice in other people’s deaths?”

  I cross my arms over my chest, frustrated with myself for feeling this way and annoyed he noticed. I should distract myself—talk about anything but the melancholy weighing me down.

  Instead of answering my question, he continues. “Death is not a pleasant thing for most, Moira. You shouldn’t be so critical over your response. It’s perfectly normal to feel the way you do.”

  My eyes flicker to him in surprise. “Are you positive you’re not an empath?”

  I see the faint imprint of his dimple before it disappears. “No, I’m merely speculating based on your expressions. I don’t think I can ever claim to fully know what goes on in that mind of yours.” His eyes narrow as he adds, “You certainly don’t make it easy.”

  I raise a brow in challenge. “Neither do you.”

  He takes the bait. “Haven’t I answered your personal questions?”

  I pause, thinking over the month I’ve known him. For a while we didn’t share anything with one another. I was too preoccupied with thinking of ways to escape and protect myself, whereas he was busy assuming I would try to escape and kill anyone in the process. It wasn’t until he permitted me to enter his mind that we began revealing personal information. And, yes, he had answered every query I presented to him. But I, too, have given him answers—that is, except anything regarding Scott Harrison. I have my reasons, however. My servitude to the blocker had been painful and confusing, and in the end, I had killed the man.

  So I suppose he has been forthright with his answers.

  “Mostly,” I admit reluctantly. “But you still leave me in the dark about certain things.”

  He lifts a brow. “Then you fail to ask the right questions. Meanwhile, you continue to evade mine.”

  “Oh, is that so? Fine, go ahead and ask me anything. Come on, Detective. What is it you wish to know?”

  He opens his mouth in preparation to speak, but he’s interrupted when a woman appears beside us. I have no idea what he was about to ask, and I might never know now. I’m suddenly grateful for the woman’s presence, because there’s a high chance he would have asked about Scott or Mr. Hayes, both of which I would have avoided.

  The woman stares at Keenan with uncertainty, her eyes flickering up the length of him. “Detective Edwards?”

  Keenan nods in polite greeting. “What can I do for you?”

  The woman is short and plump, with a round blotchy face stained with tears. If the blatant sorrow marring her face isn’t evidence enough, then her black dress certainly informs me she is mourning for the loss of a loved one. Yet beneath her melancholy, I catch the distinct scent of fury. She’s lost someone in a moment of injustice, and I wonder if she’s a relative of Ginny or Rebekah. I had seen both victims, and this woman standing before me doesn’t resemble either one of them. Maybe she’s distantly related. Her gaze cuts to me with obvious antagonism, and it finally dawns on me her sorrow is for the man who was just executed.

  I scoff.

  She looks back at the detective, her uncertainty long gone. “I’m Mrs. Bradford. Anthony’s mother.”

  Keenan nods his head respectfully. “How can I be of service, Mrs. Bradford?”

  By the look in Mrs. Bradford’s eyes, I know Keenan has asked her the wrong question. Her ire pierces through her misery, and her face twists into an expression of fury. Her son has just died, and she’s looking for someone to blame. Yet I have no way of warning Keenan, so her accusation comes to him unexpectedly.

  “Because of you my son is dead,” she spits at him venomously.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Anthony wasn’t responsible for killing anyone. He was a good man—a man of the law.” She steps closer, glaring accusingly at Keenan. “I’ve heard about Mr. Anderson’s death, and I know about the lies the police are telling us. If you spent less time with this whore,” she pauses to look at me deliberately before she continues. “You would have found the real killer by now and my son would still be alive.”

  Keenan has—not surprisingly—remained calm during Mrs. Bradford’s allegation, and I wonder if he encounters this sort of situation often. He has undoubtedly caught his share of criminals during his ten years of service, and there’s always someone who believes in their innocence. How many people resent him for imprisoning a loved one?

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Bradford,” he says cordially. “But I assure you your son was responsible for raping and killing Ginny Parker and Rebekah Gray. He was also guilty of raping several other women. I know this because the Elite’s blockers had read his mind and had found each memory.”

  Her eyes widen in indignation. “Well, we’ll see about that, Mr. Edwards.”

  She huffs and walks away before he can respond.

  We’re quiet on the drive toward the police station, and I can just imagine that Keenan’s mind is replaying Mrs. Bradford’s words. I don’t like that she mentioned Mr. Anderson’s death or alluded to the fact the police are lying to the citizens of Braxton. Nor do I like how she blamed the detective for her son’s death, and her last words had sounded ominous. Last night’s scene flashes before me, and I hear Keenan telling me that when he should be concentrating on the case he’s thinking of me instead. I glance at him sideways, wondering if those thoughts are positive or negative ones. Does he blame me for distracting him just as Mrs. Bradford had done?

  “Do you suppose she knows about the Phoenix?” I ask, breaking the silence.

  “You tell me, Moira. You’re the one who’s the empath.”

  “It’s not like I invade every person’s mind and read their entire life in that moment.” I think back to what I had sensed from her. “But even though she mentioned Mr. Anderson, I honestly didn’t get the impression she knows there’s an empath killing members of the Elite. She’s definitely suspicious though.”

  “Yes, and someone has been talking.”

  “Are you thinking of anyone in particular? Because there’s a number of people who could have let some information slip. Perhaps it’s one of the constables. A lot of them had been in denial when we caught Anthony.”

  He glances at me sideways. “Actually, I had Mrs. Anderson in mind.”

  “Why would she talk?”

  “Because her husband was just recently killed, and her son was persuaded by an empath to kill him. She’s frightened for herself and Andrew.” He sighs before continuing. “And when people are frightened, they talk.”

  “True.” I consider the side of his profile, trying to gauge his thoughts. “Regardless of what she said, I hope you don’t feel responsible. You can’t save everyone.” He doesn’t say anything in response, so I continue. “I just can’t believe that after everything she refused to acknowledge her son was guilty. I mean how can someone look at the evidence and still deny its truth?”

  His voice is quiet when he responds. “People don’t want to believe those close to them are capable of such horrors.”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous,” I snap. “Everyone’s guilty of something until proven otherwise.”

  Keenan frowns. “I believe it’s the other way around, Moira. Everyone is innocent until proven guilty.”

  “Not at all. People should expect the worse from others, especially those close to them. Then they won’t be hurt when someone disappoints them.” I lift my head high and look away. “It’s how I’ve survived.”

  “Ah, yes, survival.”

  With those words, I know he has every intention of arguing with me. I’ve come to realize it’s rare we agree on something, so I’m not surprised when he continues.

 
“But people don’t want to just survive. They want to live in cities, and exchange goods and services.” He parks in front of the police station and turns to face me. “Fall in love, and have children of their own. And in order to do all that they first need to trust. How can anyone live if they’re constantly expecting the people around them to lie, cheat, steal, hurt, and kill?”

  My heart had actually fluttered when he said fall in love, especially since he chose that exact moment to turn his gaze on me. Though I understand what he is saying, I still find the idea of trusting anyone difficult. But I suppose in retrospect I’m already guilty of blindly trusting others. I’ve placed my faith in the Elite to keep their promise, and I’ve trusted Keenan enough to feel safe in his presence. Of course I still have my doubts about him, but I’m not constantly paranoid he’ll harm me. So instead of arguing further, I ask a different question.

  “Are you saying you trust me?”

  “Yes,” he says without hesitancy. “Whether or not you are worthy of that trust is yet to be determined.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of being wrong?”

  His face acquires a sombre expression, and his gaze flickers between my different coloured eyes. Finally, he says in a quiet voice I barely hear, “Of course.”

  Just when I’m certain I can’t bear to be at the receiving end of that inquisitive gaze of his, he breaks eye contact and exits the motor vehicle. I hasten to follow him into the police station, his words haunting me with each step. The idea he has placed such blind faith in me disturbs me greatly, for I have never once considered other people’s expectations of me. What did I care if I disappointed Madame Del Mar or Scott Harrison? And I can’t think of a time when anyone trusted me. Perhaps Devin did once, but that time has passed.

  The Chief requests our presence in his office the moment we enter the police station, so, naturally, we immediately oblige. It’s only when the burly man closes the door I realize the station is eerily quiet. Even the Chief’s face is extremely solemn, and then I remember Anthony Bradford was just hanged. Of course the constables would be especially silent on this day, even if the man had been guilty. They lost a fellow constable—a man they worked beside and trusted for many years. Where did their trust in Anthony lead them? Nowhere, except to disappointment.

  The Chief sits in his chair and avoids making eye contact with either one of us. “I suppose it’s over then?”

  The detective looks at him gravely. “Yes, and Mrs. Bradford spoke to me afterward.”

  “Christ.”

  “She refuses to believe Anthony was guilty,” continues Keenan. “It also seems as if someone is spreading word that the deaths aren’t as they appear and that someone else is responsible.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that at all,” mutters the Chief. “We can’t have everyone knowing there’s an empath involved. It’s the seventh today and, so far, there hasn’t been a murder.” He finally looks up at us, his expression wary. “I think it’s safe to say the Phoenix has changed the rules of the game.”

  The Chief straightens in his seat. “There’s something else. A blocker has just finished interrogating Daniel, and he’s not the one who used persuasion on Andrew.”

  “I was afraid of that,” says Keenan.

  I lift my head in determination. “I still think Jonathan is involved.”

  The detective’s gaze falls on me and there’s a challenge in his eyes. “And did your visit provide any useful information to that theory?”

  “What visit?” interjects the Chief, bewildered.

  Now both men are staring at me expectantly. “Mr. Hayes invited me over for drinks a few days ago. I had planned to see if I could acquire any information about Jonathan, but I was unaware the blocker has his own residence near Mr. Hayes. So he wasn’t there when I had visited.”

  The Chief glances between me and the detective, his curiosity piqued. He’s wondering if my visit included other activities other than drinking and why the detective is regarding me with such an intense gaze. Then he starts to wonder if the detective and I have become physical. The idea seems to make him uncomfortable, and he quickly clears his throat and adjusts his weight on the chair.

  “I see,” he says finally. “Well, I don’t know if I like the idea of you going out on your own, Moira. And no it’s not because I believe you’ll try to escape—though, to be honest, that thought has crossed my mind. I just don’t want you in any danger. We wouldn’t want another Bradford situation.”

  “I promise to be careful from now on.”

  “Good, now get out of here and solve the damn case.”

  The Chief shoos us out of his office, though he’s secretly amused. When we exit, Keenan informs me he first has to grab something from his office before we leave, so I decide to take the opportunity to speak with Constable Jamieson. I feel bad for not speaking with him and his fiancée again after I had spoken with Josephine at Mr. Harrison’s private event, especially since they had been polite.

  Rick smiles when he sees me approach, informing me that he doesn’t harbour any resentment toward me. “You made quite the impression on Christine. She’s been talking about you ever since.”

  “Really?” I say, slightly surprised. “Well, I liked her as well. She seems sweet and caring. The two of you make quite the match.”

  He fidgets with the papers before him, suddenly nervous. “I hope you don’t mind I told her you were Mr. Edwards’s blocker.”

  I sit on the edge of his desk, my lips curving up in mirth. “Not at all, but I was wondering why. I mean most people just assume I’m his concubine, not his blocker.” I lean forward and give him a secretive wink. “It’s more believable, you see.”

  He shrugs, his cheeks reddening. “It just didn’t seem right to say that.”

  I sigh. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Rick stops fidgeting, and his face widens into an inviting grin. “She wants you two to come over for tea sometime. Do you think you can convince the detective?”

  “That sounds lovely. But as for the detective, I don’t possess that amount of persuasion over him. So, unfortunately, you’re on your own. But the good news is, he seems to like you two, which means he most likely won’t avoid you like he does with the Chief’s wife.”

  Rick laughs. “I’m not surprised. She practically shoves every young, single woman on him every chance she gets.”

  “Someone needs to inform her that Keenan is more than capable of doing that on his own. Besides, I may not have known him long, but it seems to me the detective isn’t exactly eager to settle down, get married, and have children.”

  Rick’s face twists into a thoughtful expression before he shrugs. “Some people just aren’t in need of companionship like others.” He then looks up at me and smiles. “Or maybe he just hasn’t found the right woman yet.”

  * * *

  In the evening, I arrive in the dining room to find the detective’s usual seat unoccupied. Mrs. Whitmore finishes laying out the meal, her gaze carefully focused on her task. Hungry, I sit at my end of the table and wait for Keenan. The moment the housekeeper leaves I begin to eat, deciding Keenan wouldn’t care about the usual dining room etiquette. But when my hunger slowly abates and my plate is nearly finished, he has yet to appear. The man doesn’t practice healthy eating habits, and I wonder how he’s managed to survive this long. An image of Keenan hunched over his desk as an abandoned cigarette slowly withers by his side flashes in my mind. Does he lock himself in his study constantly because he’s passionate about his work? Or has the man occupied his mind with work because he’s lost all passion in life?

  I rise from my seat and leave the dining room in search of him. I immediately head toward his study and knock on the door, but he doesn’t answer. I know better than to think silence equates absence, so I knock more insistently and smile when his flustered voice travels through the door. His annoyance increases when I enter the room, mostly because he had just told me to go away. As I suspected, Keenan is hunched over his d
esk, examining a collection of papers with a frightening intensity. A cigarette lies in the ashtray beside him, a steady cloud of smoke rising with lazy deliberateness, but what I didn’t expect to see is the glass of liquor on his other side or his slightly inebriated state.

  He doesn’t even bother to glance up from the document in his hand, and his voice is curt. “I said I wasn’t hungry.”

  I respond in kind, my words revealing my peevish state. “Well, no wonder. You’ve already started drinking.”

  He glances up suddenly, slightly surprised. It’s almost as if he didn’t expect his intruder to be me, but I find that idea baffling. Mrs. Whitmore must have knocked on his door earlier. His shock quickly dissipates, replaced by a swarm of emotions that struggle to dominate over one another. He rises from his seat and approaches me, shocking me even more. His eyes are bloodshot, and his tension slithers toward me threateningly.

  “Alright, Moira, shall we go eat?”

  My suspicion immediately rises. “I thought you weren’t hungry?”

  “I am now,” he says, attempting to usher me out of his study.

  I should follow him and ignore the gnawing suspicion inside me, but my desire for knowledge has never been denied. To leave now would be impossible, especially since the detective is hiding something. The fact he doesn’t wish me to know what is written on those papers should warn me it’s something I don’t want to see, but I’ve never been one to turn away from knowledge, even if it’ll hurt me. So instead of exiting with him, I maneuver around him and snatch one of the sheets. My eyes narrow as I realize it’s a concubine’s list of transactions.

  “Moira–”

  “Why are you looking over Rachel’s transactions? Or is this Mia’s?” When he doesn’t answer, I narrow my eyes and my voice tightens with distrust. “Why so much guilt, Detective?”

  He exhales slowly, his stoicism deflating with the movement, and it’s the first time his eyes meet mine reluctantly. “It’s yours.”