When Dr. White lowers the cover to reveal the face of the victim, I instinctively cringe at the sight of the gun wound. Andrew’s head is brutally disfigured, his flesh split open to expose a gruesome window into the human brain. My hand flies to my mouth, and I try not to vomit.
“Apparently, he committed suicide this morning,” says the detective beside me. “But I’d like you to confirm that.”
I could say I’ve become comfortable with the sight of death after seeing its face several times in the past three months, but that would be a lie. It will take years before I can look oblivion in the eyes and not even flinch like the detective. But at the moment, the same overwhelming melancholy I had felt the day of Anthony Bradford’s execution settles over me. It’s with great trepidation I place my fingertips on Andrew’s temples and dive into the remnants of his mind. A scene flashes before me, fragmented and sluggish. Words are written and there’s a revolver on a desk. Then there’s nothing but darkness. I release my hold slowly and it’s as if a part of Andrew’s lingering sorrow clings to my fingertips and infects me.
Keenan looks at me expectantly, and I shake my head in response to his unspoken question. There was no sign of the Phoenix’s insignia. Nor was there evidence of any sort of tampering. Andrew wrote a suicide letter and then shot himself in his father’s study. I pity the woman who is not only a recent widow, but also a grieving mother now. Was she the one who found her son’s body? I hope not. I remember a time when I too had seen the aftermath of a suicide: a woman hangs from the rafter and one of Devin’s arms wraps around her torso as the other removes the noose from her neck.
“Moira?”
I start out of the painful memory and meet the detective’s gaze. He responds to my quizzical look with a frown and gestures for us to leave, but as usual, I wash my hands before we exit. We drive to the police station where we immediately enter the privacy of his office. Keenan sits behind his desk and, per his customary behaviour, promptly lights a cigarette as he taps the side of his chair with the other hand.
He looks at me and exhales leisurely. “I presume then Andrew committed suicide of his own accord.”
“I didn’t see any interference.” I recall the words I had seen in Andrew’s mind. “Do you have the letter he wrote?”
Keenan opens a folder and hands me a single piece of paper. I tentatively hold the letter, as if it’s capable of crumbling beneath my touch, and begin to read.
Dear Mother,
I have been nothing but a burden to you for many years, and now I have committed a heinous crime by leaving you a widow. Though I feel you are better off without the cruel man you claimed as your husband, I cannot bear the torment I have caused you. The guilt eats away at my soul each day that passes. Even if you could ever find it in your heart to forgive me, I don’t think I could ever forgive myself. I hated him, mother. I am not ashamed of what I have felt; my only regret is I have caused you pain. I have been struggling with a great sorrow for many years, and I feel it is time I relieve myself of it and relieve you of your duty as well. I will love you forever.
Yours truly,
Andrew
Slowly, I place the letter on Keenan’s desk and sit back in my chair. If I didn’t feel so hollow inside, I probably would have cried after reading Andrew’s last words. I know without a doubt he underestimated his mother’s capacity for forgiveness, because I had seen it in her eyes the day we interrogated him. She had already forgiven her son—his crime incomparable to her profound love. If only he knew. Sometimes, it’s harder to forgive ourselves than it is to accept mercy from others.
My gaze flickers away from the suicide letter to stare at Keenan directly, and the emotions of the past few days—the resentment and puzzlement—slip away. And all that is left is a great weariness that settles over my shoulders, weighing me down. I should feel relieved I’ve let go of those toxic emotions, but all I feel is a profound regret.
“How do you do it, Keenan?”
“Do what exactly?”
I wave my hand in a generalized motion. “Deal with so much death all the time.”
“I suppose I have my ways.”
“You mean drinking and smoking?”
“Yes, those as well. But I was thinking more along the lines of the dream house.” His brows pull tight in contemplation. “But I wouldn’t suggest either.”
I laugh caustically. “I have no intention of becoming a drunk or picking up smoking for that matter. Nor can I afford the services of a dream weaver.” My expression sobers. “You must have seen a lot of death in your line of work.”
“Probably not as much as you think,” he says, exhaling slowly. “But, yes, I have seen my fair share as you say.” He extinguishes his cigarette and returns the letter to the file. “One benefit of being a detective though is I also have the privilege of seeing justice served.”
“You mean the Elite’s justice,” I say, bringing up an old argument between us.
His unyielding gaze shows no sign of compliance. “Yes, Moira, the very laws that have zero tolerance for murder.”
I lift a brow. “Except me, of course.”
“I would beg to differ.”
“I know you would.”
He intends to broach the subject of Scott’s death again, and the question I had read in his notes earlier flashes in my mind. Is Moira somehow connected to the Phoenix case? Am I? The idea I may have been the Phoenix’s first victim is too confounding for me to even contemplate. It would mean at one point in my life—or maybe more—I had met the empath or one of the empaths working with the Phoenix. They would have used persuasion on me and then taken my memory of the event afterwards.
Would I have received a letter? No, impossible. Scott forbade me to correspond with anyone. So how would the Phoenix have activated the persuasion? Not only that, but why have me kill Scott Harrison? He had been the Chief Blocker and, therefore, worked for Mr. Harrison. But Daniel was also a blocker whose master was another Elite member. The only possible explanation is the Phoenix must have approached Scott at one point to recruit him and Scott had refused.
I only realize now that I have been contemplating the idea while the detective has been watching me keenly, and I glower at him. “It’s not possible.”
“Why not, Moira?” He leans forward, his eyes glittering with the thrill of potentially discovering a vital clue. “You say you don’t remember what happened. Haven’t you ever wondered why you mysteriously blacked out only to come to and find your master dead at your feet?”
I shrug. “I just thought I went crazy and finally snapped.”
“That’s unlikely.” His expression softens. “We could have a blocker read your mind–”
“No.”
He sighs heavily, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t you want to find out the truth?”
“No, I don’t!”
My outburst only frustrates him more. He doesn’t understand why I would refuse to delve further into the past in order to unlock the truth. Not only might it prove useful to the Phoenix case, but it may also prove my innocence. To him, those two reasons alone should be motivation enough to have a blocker read my mind immediately. Because what can be better than finding out you’re actually innocent of a crime you believed you committed? What he fails to understand is my fright. The idea an empath used persuasion on me is terrifying, just as much as the prospect of having my hope and redemption stripped away from me if it turns out that, in fact, I am guilty.
“Why not?” he demands.
“Because what if you’re wrong?”
His eyes light up in understanding. “Are you really going to let your fear get in the way of finding out the truth?”
I contemplate the question before answering. “I’ll think about it.” He frowns and opens his mouth, prepared to press the issue, but I quickly halt him. “I said I’ll think about it. It’s my past you’re ripping open, remember that.”
“Alright. I’ll give you time to think about it.”
&nbs
p; “How very kind of you.”
“It’s the least I can do to demonstrate my apologies.” He holds my gaze, and his voice is sincere when he speaks again. “I should have consulted you first, Moira. I’m sorry.”
I lift a brow and hide my gratitude behind a teasing smile. “You’ve been apologizing a lot lately, Detective. I would have thought you’ve learned your lesson by now.”
“With you?” His lips twitch with suppressed mirth. “I doubt that’s possible.”
My grin widens.
When we exit his office, I’m a little surprised to see Alyssa, the Chief Blocker, speaking with one of the constables. I haven’t seen her since Mr. Harrison’s private event where she had insulted me. She turns her head and notices me standing near the entrance with the detective. I expect her to ignore me or glower at me, but, instead, she nods slightly in acknowledgement before turning back to the constable.
I touch Keenan’s arm to halt his progress. “Just give me a moment. There’s someone I wish to say hello to.”
“Alright.”
The moment I reach the blocker, she has finished speaking with the constable. He turns and walks away, and my eyes follow his progress before settling back on her. Those dark eyes scrutinize me from beneath her long, thick lashes, and she’s being extra careful to keep everything behind her mental barriers.
I narrow my eyes. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I could say the same of you.”
“You know I’m helping the police with an investigation.”
She lifts a brow and manages to look down at me. “Are you? Because from what I understand the police have yet to solve the case.”
I bite down on my sarcastic remark and instead smile coolly at her. “Yes. Of course you would think that, because you’re not part of the investigation and don’t know anything. But we’ve actually discovered a lead, so don’t be surprised to hear something soon.”
Her eyes narrow, wondering if what I say is the truth, and she opens her mouth to speak.
I quickly cut her off, forcing her to flounder in her confusion. “Have a good day, Alyssa.”
She glowers at me before I turn away, smiling.
9
The next day, Keenan and I are at the police station when something horrible happens. Mrs. Anderson storms into the station and demands to speak with the detective. He ushers her into the privacy of his office, while I’m left standing on the other side of the closed door with Rick and the other constables. Despite the barrier between us, Mrs. Anderson’s raised voice is heard quite clearly. But only I am able to sense her true and deep-seated turmoil. Everyone’s eyes covertly flicker to the two figures who can be seen through the glass as her voice resounds loudly through the station. Keenan remains seated at his desk, quietly listening to the grieving woman.
“You were supposed to keep my son safe.” She paces before him, her voice loud with accusation. “But you failed, and now he is dead! I have lost everything—my husband and son are gone. And it’s your fault! Why haven’t you caught the person responsible?”
His voice is calm as always, but I can sense the guilt he truly feels. “I assure you, Mrs. Anderson, we are doing everything possible to find the person responsible. Andrew’s death is extremely unfortunate, but there’s nothing I could have done–”
“You could have found the killer!”
The detective abruptly stands. “Mrs. Anderson, I promise I–”
“Don’t waste your promises on me,” she snaps defiantly. “Just find the killer or you’ll soon find yourself no longer a detective.”
She storms out of his office and every constable in the room feigns interest in something other than the sight of her blotched face. In her haste to leave, she brushes past several constables and slams the station’s front door behind her. My gaze drifts away from her retreating figure and falls on Keenan who has taken his seat again. He silently stares at something across the room, his brows puckered in consternation. He looks so lonely there in that office of his, while everyone else is on the other side of that glass.
I shift my position on the edge of Rick’s desk, my gaze still on Keenan. “Can she actually do anything to jeopardize his position as detective?”
Rick shakes his head. “I doubt it. Mr. Edwards is held in high regard by Mr. Harrison for his service on the Hangman case.”
“That makes sense,” I say thoughtfully. “The Hangman taunted the police and threatened the Elite’s authority, and Keenan had been the one to find the man responsible.”
He glances up from his desk to look at me. “It was more than that. At least, it was for Mr. Harrison.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because of the Hangman’s last victim, of course. It was Mr. Harrison’s niece.” I stare at him in complete shock, my mouth opening unattractively. He frowns at my expression, but continues. “Didn’t you know? It was all over the papers, Moira.”
Not only was I a concubine at the time, but I was also only seventeen. Concubines don’t read the newspaper, especially ones who are too preoccupied with rebelling against the Madame and struggling with the idea of being purchased. So the only way I would have known about that fact was by word of mouth. Apparently, everyone in my vicinity had their mouths closed. I glance at Keenan in wonder. In addition to being the man responsible for catching an infamous murderer, the detective had also brought personal justice for the Chief Elite member. No wonder Mr. Harrison respects Keenan’s opinion so much.
His gaze turns in my direction, and our eyes lock on one another through the glass. There’s something in his expression I have only glimpsed during the times he allowed me to enter his mind. It’s an openness—a vulnerability. But this time, there’s also a note of desperation and wistfulness. It’s as if he’s silently calling on me and is incapable of voicing his need. All this time I was unsuccessfully ‘flaunting my sexuality’—in his words—in his face, believing it was the only way I could be noticed. But I failed to see I already had his interest. He, on the other hand, wasn’t sure if he had mine.
“You should go to him,” says Rick softly, as if he has known all along what I have just now realized.
Wordlessly, I push away from Rick’s desk and enter the detective’s office. I sit down in the chair opposite Keenan, and his gaze follows my every movement. I’ve certainly made a mess of things by accepting Mr. Hayes’s offer, and I just hope it’s not too late. When he doesn’t speak, I decide to break the silence.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Keenan. The woman just lost her son and is grieving. I’d be angry, too.”
“Perhaps, but she’s also right.” He averts his gaze. “I should have found the Phoenix by now.”
“How?” When he remains silent, I continue. “You haven’t found the Phoenix because he’s been careful to hide his tracks. It has nothing to do with your capabilities as a detective, and anyone would have just as much trouble. Not to mention you have me—an empath—helping you. If you’re to blame, then I’m to blame as well.”
My words have no effect on him, offering him none of the comfort I had intended to give, and I know he will seek solace in the haze of liquor tonight.
* * *
I understand now it’s not the sight of death that exactly bothers the detective. He is a man of science and is capable of disassociating his emotions. When he looks at a dead body, he doesn’t see the absence of life or the void in which the mind is supposed to be. Instead, he sees a mystery—something that requires keen examination in order to unlock its secrets. The body is merely another valuable clue amidst the crime scene, and it’s his responsibility to find the truth within the chaos. Whereas, I walk into the scene and all I can think of is that a life has been taken. The person was alive. They once experienced a range of emotions and thoughts, and they lived long enough to acquire precious memories. And all that is now gone. One minute they’re here, and in the next minute, they no longer exist.
It reminds me of my own finite existence
and one day all that is Moira will perish. Keenan is also acutely aware of this fact, but unlike me, he isn’t as afraid. Because there are different ways to approach the reality that death presents. Some glimpse the truth and fall into a helpless melancholy, seeing no purpose to life since it all ends anyway. Others view their mortality as proof they should live selfishly, because in the end, all that matters is if you die happy. And then there are the people who search for ways to immortality through ideas or actions.
Neither choice guarantees the person is ‘good’ or ‘bad’, because it’s not the choice that makes a person benevolent or evil. It’s what the person chooses to do with that choice. I have chosen to live selfishly, fighting for my own survival in this chaotic world. Meanwhile, Keenan has taken the path to immortality, seeking ways to change the chaos around him. So it’s not the sight of death that plagues him and forces the darkness within him to surface. It’s his guilt—the knowledge he has failed to keep the city safe by preventing yet another unwarranted death from occurring.
What Mrs. Anderson had said to him earlier has affected him greatly. She painfully reminded him he has failed to find the Phoenix so, naturally, he feels responsible for Andrew’s death and anyone else who dies in connection to the Phoenix case. The stench of his self-recrimination is excruciatingly potent ever since he locked himself in his study after dinner, and I feel as if I’m drowning in it.
The Pawn of the Phoenix (The Memory Collector Series Book 2) Page 11
