“And he’s dead,” I remind her.
“Well, yes, there is that. So obviously, someone was trying to send you a message. Do you know what?”
Distrust punches at me. Is she curious or is she trying to make sure I understand that jar of blood was a message? “Why don’t you tell me?”
“Well, I don’t know. It feels like a challenge though, don’t you think?”
Her use of the word “well” several times indicates awkwardness that doesn’t sit well. “I think a lot of things, DD. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I hang up and look at Kane. “It’s pig’s blood. She says she tested it.”
He arches that dark brow again. “She says?”
“It will be interesting to find out if she really went into work today.”
“And if she did?”
“I still don’t trust her.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Gluttony is a sin for a reason.
Food makes you feel better, if only until you step on that fucking scale.
It solves a lot of problems, at least in the moment, just not murder. However, when the doorbell rings just moments after the DD call, signaling the arrival of our chef and mac ‘n’ cheese, gluttony calls to me, my new best friend.
Kane heads upstairs to greet him. I head to our room to shower. Instead, I end up standing in the bathroom, where I find myself staring in the mirror without really looking at myself, replaying that conversation with DD. Specifically her comment about the jar of pig’s blood: It feels like a challenge though, don’t you think? It could have just been morbid curiosity on her part, or a desire to play detective, which I’ve seen in a few ME’s, but it doesn’t sit right.
My mind tries to connect the dots.
I killed Roger a week ago.
Jamie may or may not have been seeing Emma for over a week but those messages sure read as if it was a long-term connection. The fiancé was, of course, a long-term relationship. In other words, if this is about me, just about me, the killer wasn’t someone close to Emma—at least no one I know about as of yet—nor is it someone completely unknown to the investigation.
Kane appears in the doorway. “He made a strawberry pie.”
“My God, I love you,” I say. “For a million reasons that include strawberry pie.”
“Feel free to list them all off.”
I laugh and close the space between us, wrapping my arms around him. “You’re trying to give us a normal holiday when nothing about our lives is normal, a family holiday. And you’re tolerating my brother and Lucas. And for those reasons alone, I need to set this case aside long enough to enjoy this day.”
“That’s not who you are, Lilah. Be you.”
“A million and one reasons,” I comment softly. “I need a shower. Do you need a shower?”
“Is that an invitation?”
“Do you need one?”
“No, but I waited a long time for you to be here, beautiful. Ask me anyway.”
And so, I do. “Will you shower with me, Kane Mendez?”
And so, he does.
We don’t talk about the unfinished conversation or fear.
I’m not afraid of him anyway. He has to know that. I’m afraid of myself.
But I’m working on that. Or I will.
Soon.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It’s three o’clock and I sit at the bar that overlooks the kitchen, watching our chef team cook, while sampling delicious food, writing out stacks of notecards related to my investigation. As for who is preparing that delicious food—Michael Roswell is a remarkably good-looking man—tall, dark, and handsome personified. He’s also an acclaimed chef, who assures me he has no family of his own and in fact, he enjoys spending his Thanksgiving cooking for others. His helper is Naomi, a pretty blonde who doesn’t speak, anger crackling beneath her surface that seems to be directed at Chef Roswell. There’s a subtle intimacy between them that defies their avoidance of eye contact with one another. And yet—I don’t believe they’re a couple. Whatever the case, what bothers her does not bother him. He’s humming to Christmas music that isn’t playing anywhere but in his head. But there’s more to their story, and another day I’d try to figure it out but not today.
Right now, I have a murder to solve, and that’s my focus.
The jar of blood was a message.
I didn’t need pretty little DD to tell me that brilliant tidbit of information. Now I have to discover the answer to a puzzle. What message? I write out a notecard with every idea:
— I’m better than the Umbrella man.
— More blood will spill.
— You beat him. You won’t beat me.
— It’s not over.
— I’m coming for you.
— You stupid bitch, you will never figure this out.
— Look here, so you won’t see the truth.
Kane sets a glass of wine in front of me and sits down. He’s in jeans and a dark blue sweater. I’m in jeans and a red sweater. My mom loved the holidays and she always wore red on Thanksgiving to launch the season. Who said I wasn’t sentimental? Me mostly, but my mother was the good part of me, the part that wasn’t a sinner, and since the house I inherited from her burned down, I’ve been disconnected from her. It’s not a good time for me to feel disconnected from my good side.
Kane figured that out, too, smart man that he is. So much so that, at my prodding, there’s a stunning tree decorated in silver and red in our living room that towers seven feet high. No one, most certainly not my brother, would believe Kane and I did the decorating, but we did. And to our surprise, we enjoyed every moment. Who says you can’t stab a man to death one moment and hang ornaments the next?
Kane picks up the card that reads you stupid bitch, you’ll never figure this out, eyes it, and lifts it in my direction with another one of his arched brows. “Who said this? You or the killer?”
“Probably both,” I say. “I feel like the meaning of that jar of blood is smacking me in the face so damn hard I should have a concussion and I still don’t have it.”
He scans all my options and then says, “You forgot one possibility.”
“Which is?”
“I don’t know. But none of those feel right.”
“Smart-ass. You’re no help.”
His lips curve. “Drink more wine. That will help.”
“I think you’re right.” I reach for my glass and sip, the bloom of sweet red berries on my tongue, my version of poison. For Emma Wells, it was a long, cold drink of water. If she was even poisoned. DD doesn’t think so, but I don’t trust her or her opinions at this point. I’ll wait for the tests.
The doorbell rings and I set my glass down. “That will be Lucas or my brother.” I down my wine and stand up. “You need to drink more wine.”
“I need whiskey,” he comments dryly.
He’s not wrong. This isn’t going to be pretty. I walk to the front door and glance through the side window. It’s Andrew. I don’t know why he’s not with Samantha. I’m sure he’ll be doing the naughty with her later, but I’m more pleased than I expected that he’s here. I open the door. Andrew stands there. He’s wearing a red sweater. Asshole is going to make me get emotional. “Damn you,” I murmur.
“What’d I do already?”
“The sweater.”
“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. I know. You too, asshole,” he grumbles.
“She was murdered,” I say. “I want those responsible to pay.”
“As do I.”
“If anyone can help us make that happen, it’s Kane. Don’t forget that over dinner.”
His lips tighten and he shoves a bottle of whiskey at me. “Peace offering. The good stuff.”
I glance at the ridiculously expensive bottle he had to have dipped into his trust to purchase and then back at him. “Excellent choice for a peace offering. Let’s go drink.” I back up so he can enter the hallway and shut the door behind him.
He turns to
face me. “You heard?”
“Pig’s blood. Yeah. I already told you that.”
He narrows his baby blues at me. “What does it mean, Lilah?”
“Fuck you,” I say, realizing that’s the one notecard I forget to write out. “It means fuck you.”
“Since this is you I’m talking to,” he says, “I’ll take that literally. Which means this is personal.”
Of course, it’s personal, I think. The jar had my name on it, but it’s Thanksgiving and despite my sisterly duty to tell him when he makes a stupid statement, I reframe. Barely. “It’s fucked up,” I say instead, and turn and head down the hallway, calling over my shoulder, “Lucas is coming!”
He groans and not because he doesn’t like Lucas. Because he knows Kane doesn’t. Today is so much joy it can only be tolerated with whiskey. And strawberry pie.
Kane is in the living room waiting on us, facing the open window, staring out at the snowy beach. “Andrew brought whiskey,” I announce as he turns, and I show him the bottle. “The good stuff. I’ll get us all the drinks we need.” I don’t wait for a reply. I head to the bar area that’s set between the kitchen and the living room.
I’ve filled three glasses and so far, there are no voices in the living room. If my brother chickened out and ran, I’m going to be ashamed of him and I might actually have to take his badge myself. I grab two of the three glasses because I’m just not in the mood to wear the whiskey that should be in my belly. I walk into the living room and Andrew and Kane are just standing there, staring at each other. Kane, at least in my observant view, is cool and at ease, but to anyone else, he’s intense and intimidating. Andrew is stiff, edgy, his mood ping-ponging against the walls and back at us all. But he’s still here. I give him credit where credit is due.
I close the space between me and him and hand him the glass. “Drink.”
He accepts the glass and downs the contents. I hand him the second. I return to the bar and come back with two more glasses. This time I walk to Kane, hand him his glass, and then glance between them. “Okay, so what do normal people talk about at Thanksgiving?” I lift my glass. “I know. Murder.”
Kane’s lips quirk. Andrew scowls.
He motions to the tree. “Your decorator did a good job.”
“Thank you,” I say. “We did, didn’t we?” I smile at Kane.
“You didn’t decorate the damn tree,” Andrew argues. “You didn’t even help when we were kids.”
“Well, people change,” I say. “I’m more delicate and sensitive now.”
Kane laughs and sips his drink.
Andrew tilts his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation with you when you weren’t accusing me of mass murder,” Kane replies dryly.
“Okay then,” I say. “We’re back to murder. Why don’t we just sit down and talk about the case then?”
Andrew eyes me. “Your husband-to-be might not like that.”
“Oddly,” Kane replies dryly, “her obsession with criminals has never bothered me.”
Obviously, he’s egging on Andrew and when Andrew scowls, I laugh. Naomi appears in her red apron with a tray of food. “I have honey garlic shrimp,” she announces and quickly rounds the couches to set the display of food, napkins, and mini plates down on the stone coffee table.
She hurries away and I say, “That’s a sign we should just sit down, stuff our faces, and get along.”
We do. We sit. Andrew is on the couch and Kane and I in an oversized chair beside him. All three of us grab a little cup filled with shrimp. Once our mouths are full, the need for conversation is gone. We’re on little cup number two when Andrew says, “I’m pretty sure hell is groaning, the three of us together, sharing a meal.”
“And Dad, too,” I add, taking the whiskey from Kane’s hand to take a sip from his glass—it tastes better in his glass than mine—before I hand it back to him, my mind chasing an idea.
“Or not,” Andrew corrects. “Kane and I are invited to the fundraiser. Maybe we’re giving Pocher exactly what they want. Us together.”
I sit up straighter with a realization. I’m on my feet a moment later and crossing to the room to stop at the kitchen island, where I grab my stack of notecards. I thumb through them all and I stop at one card: Look here, so you won’t see the truth.
The jar of blood is a distraction.
The invitation to the charity event is an olive branch that is a lie.
Both seem to point to Pocher. Unless he, too, and the timing of his return, is also a distraction meant to keep us from seeing what’s really going on.
So, what is really going on?
I’m swimming in circles and that’s exactly what someone wants me to do. And I really do hate being the boring girl who does what’s expected of me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
When I return to the living room, Kane and Andrew are standing at the window, their backs to me. I don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know that conversation involves me stabbing Roger to death and the aftermath. Their aftermath. The reality here is that if my brother doesn’t pull himself together, he’s headed for trouble, and he might take us with him.
Kane won’t let that happen.
I walk back to the bar, sit down, sip my wine, and accept a fluffy sweet potato puff from the chef before I line all my notecards up for my viewing. I scan them and decide one thing only: the puff is delicious. I’ve got nothing else, aside from the need for more information. I grab my phone and dial Lucas, who really should be here by now. He doesn’t answer. I text him: Where the hell are you and that cake?
Reaching for my wine glass, I sip and wait. No reply. Another sip. Still no reply. An uneasy feeling burns in my belly and I push it aside. He’s afraid of Kane. That’s the bottom line. That chickenshit. I dial him again. He doesn’t answer. My fingers thrum on the counter and a prickling sensation has my gaze lifting. The chef is not in the room, but Naomi is standing on the opposite side of the kitchen island staring at me.
A panicked look slides over her pretty face and she grabs a tray. “Puff pastry?” She rushes toward me.
I flashback to the woman on the floor, blood pouring out of her mouth and neck. It sure as hell reads like poisonings I’ve seen in the past. Of course, there were the ruptures in her throat but no exterior wounds and I’ve seen some wicked things with toxins. Suddenly, the puff pastries suck. Naomi shoves the tray at me. I stand up and confront her. “How long have you been with the chef?”
“I—I—why?”
“How long?” I demand.
“I don’t work for him. Not full time. He needed help today. I agreed.”
“What’s your job?”
“I work for a service. I sous chef for a pool of elite chefs. The service that coordinates it all called me this morning.”
Nothing about this reads right. “And you’re fucking Chef Roswell?”
Her spine stiffens. “That’s not appropriate.”
“That’s a yes. What’s your full name?”
“I don’t understand—”
“Do you know who I am?” I challenge.
She blinks and cuts her stare. That’s another yes. “Who you are?” she coos, all innocent, which she is not. Playing stupid is stupid. Jesus, help me. I’ll go back to church—I promise—to spare me the stupid of the world. And if you don’t strike me down when I enter the church.
“Special Agent Lilah Love,” I say. “What’s your full name?”
Her lashes lower and she wets her lips before she forces her gaze to mine. “Naomi—”
“Last name,” I snap.
“Wells,” she replies.
Wells.
Of course, it is, I think. And why wouldn’t our sous chef have the same last name as the victim of a murder last night? “What’s your connection to Emily Wells?”
“She’s my ex-sister-in-law.” She bursts into tea
rs. “She was. She was my—” She sobs and runs from the room, bumping into the chef as he returns.
He blinks and looks confused. “What happened?”
Kane appears by my side and simply looks at me, a question in his dark eyes. “The victim last night was her ex-sister-in-law,” I inform him. “I suggest we don’t eat any more of the food.”
And since my gut says Naomi will run, I step around Kane and start running toward the door.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I reach the open front door and exit the house just as Naomi’s car is moving toward the gate. The gate that opens automatically when a car approaches. I curse as Andrew appears by my side. “What the hell is going on?”
“Get your team looking for Naomi Wells,” I order, “and get us an address. We’re going to her house. She’s the ex-sister-in-law to Emma.”
My brother, Mr. America, forgets all manners and curses, but he spurs into action, yanking his phone from his pocket. I turn to find Kane in the doorway. “Any chance you have men guarding the house tonight?”
“I have my own personal FBI agent,” he replies dryly. “And she hates when people watch over us. I gave them all the day off.”
Like Kane needs anyone to protect him, but we do seem to have a pattern. I’m the one who gets stabby. He’s the one who hides the evidence. I’d say it works for us but then we did just have a potentially crazy person, maybe even Emma Wells’ killer, cook for us. “How well do you know the chef?” I ask, contemplating the small possibility that we’ve already been poisoned.
“I used a high-end chef service and they came up with a few options. Chef Roswell’s name stood out. I remember his food from an event we attended several years back. You liked his food. The charity museum event with the horse statue, remember?”
Of course, he knows I remember that night. How could I not? I was still with the NYPD, gaining attention for my profiling skills. Kane had invited me to the event and I’d happily accepted. To my surprise, and Kane’s, my father, still the police chief then, had been in attendance. So had Pocher, though at the time I knew little of him. I certainly didn’t know he and my father were already in a political bed together.
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