We climbed out and between the three of us, carried the bags we’d brought into a foyer nearly bigger than my entire house. I couldn’t help but gawk at the split staircase, the marble floor, and elaborately bejeweled chandelier, and I watched in wondrous interest as Brodie casually walked through to drop the bags on the floor.
“Are ye hungry?” he asked, leading the way through a door into the biggest, most open kitchen I’d ever seen.
“I guess,” I answered, while taking in the array of cabinets and counter space.
TJ found a seat at a round, clawfoot table in the breakfast nook, overlooking what was clearly a backyard suitable of a house like this. He was quiet, just staring at the tabletop and his hands, and I knew I would have to talk to him. I would have to be the parent in this situation and comfort him, but selfishly, all I could wonder was, who the hell is going to comfort me?
Brodie opened cabinets and the fridge, rifling through their contents, and piling random bits of food up on the counter, until there was a wide assortment to choose from. He gestured at the whole lot of it and shrugged, as he said, “Help yerself.”
But neither TJ nor I moved. We just stared at the pile of packages and containers, exhausted and emotionally stripped down until every nerve ending was exposed to the elements. My whole body ached with every torturous beat of my heart, and I realized that, despite not having eaten all day, I wasn’t the slightest bit hungry. I was tired, I was angry and sad, but most of all, I just missed my sister.
Rick walked into the room, to find the three of us gathered around the pile of food. At first, I thought he might say something about the mess or why we were in his house, but he just pushed some chips and crackers aside and laid down the papers tucked under his arm.
“I want ye to know, I don’t have the equipment to do a proper postmortem,” he said sternly, volleying his eyes between Brodie and me.
“I ken,” Brodie muttered.
“Ye wouldae had more luck if ye had spoken to someone else at the forensics lab.”
“And what if that someone else then talked to William?” Brodie challenged, raising a dark brow to his friend.
“Ye dinnae ken they—”
“Exactly. We dinnae ken. And besides, we’re not lookin’ for luck,” Brodie answered, his voice firm and gruff. “We’re lookin’ for a general explanation as to how she died.”
Rick nodded solemnly, then looked behind him, to my son sitting at the table. He asked, “Are ye okay to hear this, laddie?”
TJ nodded. “I want to hear it.” I opened my mouth to protest, taking a step toward him, and he held up his hand to stop me. “I want to hear this, Mom!”
The protective mother in me wanted to urge him from the room and send him away. To send him home altogether, far away from Scotland and murder. But the damage was done, and now, there was a new part of me speaking. The part that knew he had grown up fast within this past week, and within the hour of learning of his aunt’s murder. I needed to allow him to make this choice for himself. So, I nodded for Rick to continue, not sure I wanted to hear his findings myself.
“Well,” he began in a somber voice, accompanied by a sigh, “I can say for certain this was no accident.”
“We’re aware,” Brodie replied impatiently.
Rick eyed his friend with irritation. “Ye made mention of marks on her neck,” he said, and Brodie nodded. “Well, they were there, and along with those marks, there’s also the fractured hyoid bone, which is typical in strangulation. I’m gonna make an educated guess and assume this was the cause of death.”
“That wasnae mentioned in the report,” Brodie muttered, a bland, unsurprised tone to his voice.
“There’s also the depressed skull fracture, which is consistent with blunt force trauma—”
“From the fall, right?” TJ surprised me by speaking up as he stood from the table.
Rick turned and offered the boy a small, sympathetic smile. “With this particular fracture, I’m more inclined to think it occurred from being struck by somethin’ smaller, like a hammer, perhaps.”
TJ wilted before my eyes as his gaze dropped to the floor and his shoulders sagged. “Oh.”
“None of the injuries are likely to have occurred from a fall, and I’m more inclined to think she was placed there, in the forest, to look as though she fell to her death.”
“Can you suffer a hyoid fracture from falling?” I asked, grasping at straws or anything to finally put this all to rest. Just so it could end and I could take my son and sister home.
Rick was a tall, scruffy looking man, with an assortment of bandages adorning his fingers and hands, like he'd lost one too many battles with a thorn bush. His hair was an unruly mess of curls and length that could have been a little more controlled with a decent haircut and brush, and his clothes were about as rumpled as his friend, Brodie's. In my mind, with his down-turned mouth and sad eyes, he fit the part of funeral director to a perfect T, always looking as though he could burst into tears at any moment. And now, as I watched any shred of lingering hope darken in his eyes, I imagined I knew what it was like to be one of his clients, and I wished to be anything but that.
“Aye,” he muttered with a somber bob of his head. “But that's not what happened here, lass. I'm sorry.”
I could only nod. I hadn't realized it before, but I'd still been hanging onto some possibility of him finding evidence that she hadn't, in fact, been murdered. That it wasn't a mystery and hadn’t been foul play. That, somehow, it was a simple, tragic, godforsaken accident, and as heartbreaking as it would have been—had been—to accept that, it was so, so much harder to accept that Gracie had been robbed of her life. And by who? Would we ever know? And what would happen once we found him—or her?
A sweeping surge of anguish thrust my body around and I rushed into the foyer to get away from the swallowing truth in the kitchen. I listened as Brodie told my son to give me a moment and TJ sniffled and sighed. Then, I listened as Rick whispered in a voice I could still hear, as he told Brodie his other findings.
“She, ah,” he cleared his throat uncomfortably, “she had lacerations all over her body, including her pubic area. Without doin' a series of lab tests, I cannae be certain of what happened, but if I had to guess—”
“Just say she was raped,” Brodie replied in a gruff, angry whisper.
“I don’t—”
“Come on, man. Ye do know.”
Rick sighed. “It's an ugly thing,” he said quietly. “And thinkin' it was someone here, someone we could fuckin’ know … it doesnae sit well with me. And whoever the bastard was … he, or she, wasnae merciful.”
The thumping, pounding organ in my chest clenched in a violent seizure of despair, as I exhaled every last bit of air from my lungs and sank to the marble floor in a crumpled heap of sobs. At the thought of my baby sister, tortured and made to suffer, I opened my mouth to scream, to beg my god and all the others to take my life instead of hers, but no sound would escape my lips. Just a silence that reflected hers, and I prayed to be dead, too. Just to be with her. Just to be free of this pain, like her.
***
When I opened my eyes, I found myself in a room fit for a palace. The four, large posts of the bed I laid on surrounded me, and I stared up to the ceiling and its old, exposed beams. I couldn't remember coming into the room, or being laid on the bed, and I assumed I must've passed out in my breakdown.
I sat up and surveyed the room in all of its splendor, looking for my son and not finding him. One glance out the window into a pitch-black world told me it was very late, and I had to guess he was asleep somewhere else in the house.
A few moments later, the door creaked open, and Brodie peaked inside. I eyed him warily now, holding an unreasonable prejudice against every person in Scotland, and when he entered, I found myself scurrying backward on the bed.
“Rosie,” he said, holding out a sturdy, careful hand, “ye cannae think I'd be capable of this.”
“How the hell am I su
pposed to know?” I spat out at him, bracing myself for his approach, but he stayed right where he was, just at the foot of the bed. But he was blocking my escape from this room, and that was enough for my tortured mind to see him as a threat. “Anybody in this fucking town could've done this, so how the fuck am I supposed to trust any of you?”
He lowered his hand, to tuck it and his other into his pants pockets, and shrugged. “Ye're right,” he replied, nodding. “Ye shouldnae trust me, or anybody, for that matter. Ye dinnae ken who did this heinous thing to yer sister, and ye should be fuckin' mad. Ye should be so fuckin' pissed, that ye would do anythin' ye can to find the bastard that did it.”
I sat at the head of the bed, shaking and beginning to cry slow, slippery tears, as he spoke in a low, sullen voice, that told me he was just as angry as I was. Then, his brow furrowed as he stepped forward, and this time I didn’t flinch, as he said, “I told ye I would find the arsehole that did this, and that he would pay with his life, even if it means riskin’ my own, and I meant every word. But I need yer help, Rosie. I cannae do this alone.”
He watched me, pleading with deep, brown eyes, and I was sure the sincerity I found there could fill the entire house. So, I nodded.
“Okay,” I agreed, in a small, meek voice, confirming that I was with him until the end, while hoping beyond hope that it wouldn’t come to that.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ROSIE
Before he left my room, Alec let me know that TJ was in the room adjacent to mine, and that he was going to sit in the kitchen for a while, to reassess the case and go over his notes. Then, he walked out of my room, in his quiet way that I'd already grown accustomed to and closed the door behind him.
I sat on the bed, far too big for one person, and stared ahead at the door, feeling so confused and disoriented. The events of the past week—the news of Gracie's demise, the questions about how she died, the back and forth of whether it was accidental or not, and the realization that it was in fact murder—rushed against my mind, pummeling me into a dream-like state until the room spun, and my stomach swam in a sea of nausea.
Where the hell was I supposed to go from here? How could I trust this man when Gracie's killer could have been anyone? I had half a mind to just grab my son, forget my sister's lifeless body, and run home as quickly as possible, with the foolish thought that being thousands of miles away could protect us from the truth. But in another stream of logic, I couldn't reasonably explain how Alec Brodie could be Gracie's murderer. And it wasn't that I thought he was a particularly warm or kind man; it was more his passion to seek justice that threw me off. His persistence was too strong to be fake, his want to keep us safe was too sincere, and I talked my panic back down to a reasonable level, as I scrubbed my clammy palms against my cheeks.
Closing my eyes and pressing my hands to my face, I thought of Gracie, my poor, sweet little sister. Even in adulthood, she had held onto an innocence I had often teased her for, and I thought about that now. How often I had made fun of her love for cartoons, how she still slept with stuffed animals, and how she preferred a day at a children's museum over a day at the beach. The guilt steadily crept in, crowding my lungs and heart with a suffocating pain, as I wished I had kept my mouth shut all of those times. It had all been in good fun and I hadn't meant anything by it, but now I wanted to take back every one of those moments and every time I had demanded she grow up. I wished now that she had never had to grow up and that she could've always been a child, because then, she never would've gotten onto that plane. She never would have come here and met whoever the hell took her from me. She wouldn’t have been hurt and never would have been killed. Christ, I wished so badly it could have been me, instead. I was stronger, hardened by life and divorce, and maybe, just maybe, I could have fought harder than her.
Imagery joined the guilt and pain now. I saw her, taken and trapped. Struggling and screaming. Held down, like a pinned butterfly on horrific display. Beaten and broken, destroyed and disposed of. I pretended with ignorant foolishness that I knew what she felt in the end, all of her fear, pain, and sorrow, and I was sure the agony would suffocate me in the clear air of this room in Scotland.
Snapping my eyes open, afraid I'd see Gracie's lifeless, empty face staring back at me, I knew I needed to get away from these walls. I couldn't be alone, not with these thoughts or this pain, and I nearly jumped from the bed, to escape the room and head next door to find TJ. But when I reached the adjacent room and pushed the door open, I found him asleep. He was curled up beneath the covers with his fists tucked under his chin, like he had always slept as a little boy, and I resisted the urge to climb into bed with him. As badly as I needed the comfort, I wanted him to sleep, and so, I closed the door quietly behind me and moved down the hall, to the stairs, and into the kitchen.
Brodie sat on one of the island stools, pouring over his notepad and an array of photographs and papers. One hand clenched strands of his dark, brown hair, while the other held a pen, which he tapped endlessly against the crown of his head. He groaned and dropped the pen to the counter, gripping his hair in both hands now, when he noticed I was there and inhaled with a sharp breath.
“F-F-F-Fu-Fuck,” he stuttered, bringing his palms down to the counter with a slap and slamming his eyes shut. Then, after a few, deep breaths, he looked to me again and in a slow, steady voice, said, “Ye cannae sneak up on me like that.”
“You're jumpy,” I said, offering a gentle, teasing smile that I didn't quite feel.
“Bein' surprised isn’t somethin' I handle well,” he muttered, glowering for a moment, before turning his attention back on his work. Then, without looking at me, he said, “If ye’re hungry, help yerself.”
At the mention of food, my stomach growled angrily, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten all day. So, I turned to the fridge and opened it, surveying its contents, and eventually landing on a container of what looked like pasta. But on my way to the microwave, Brodie looked up and abruptly jumped to his feet.
“No, no, dinnae eat that,” he exclaimed, taking the container from my hands, and throwing it into the trash like he was scoring a touchdown. Then, seeing the startled expression on my face, he said, “We really need to clean around here. That’s been in there for weeks.”
Unable to contain my laugh, I said, “I guess I shouldn’t expect more from a bachelor pad.”
Brodie laughed then, too. A genuine, grinning laugh, one that had me giggling right along with him, and I scolded myself for finding his smile so appealing.
“Aye,” he finally agreed, nodding.
“So,” I said, heading back to the fridge, “can I really help myself, or should I be afraid of everything in here?”
“Better I take a look first,” he muttered with a hearty chuckle and peered inside. “Do ye like Chinese food?”
“Like it? Try love it.”
He pulled out a container and handed it to me. “This was my supper last night. Ye can have—”
“Did you want it? I don’t want to—”
“Rosie, I wouldnae offer if I didnae want ye to have it.”
He had this way of saying things that said, without a doubt, that it was the final word and there was nothing left to be said. So, when he turned away to slump back down with his work, sighing and thrusting both hands into his hair, I heated the food in silence. Then, I took a seat at the other end of the counter, assuming he’d want his space and wouldn’t want to feel obligated to entertain me. But just as I pulled my phone from my pocket, he lifted his head and looked directly at me.
“Yer sister didn’t happen to know anyone here, did she?”
Lowering my phone, I shook my head. “No. She was completely alone.”
Humming with contemplation, he rubbed at his scruffy chin. “And ye said she had met someone at a pub?”
“Yeah,” I said, poking my fork around the container as I nodded. “There was a guy at a pub. She met him on what was supposed to be her last night here. She—”
�
�What pub?” he asked, and I shrugged, my shoulders sagging immediately with defeat. “Well, do ye remember where it was?”
I had to think about it for a moment, as I turned my gaze on the container of lukewarm Chinese leftovers and tried to remember exactly what Gracie had said during our last phone conversation. Immediately, I felt frustrated by how quickly I was forgetting those final moments, and I groaned loudly, squeezing my eyes shut and shaking my head.
“I don’t know,” I admitted with an agitated huff. “I wish I could remember, but—”
“Try,” Brodie urged, moving swiftly from his stool to the one beside me. “Think, Rosie. Put yerself back there. What was she sayin’ to ye? What was she doin’? Where was she headin’ to?”
Closing my eyes again, I forced myself back into that moment, when I was curled up on my couch and watching some stupid home improvement show on TV. Gracie had called me after another disappointing tour, unhappy that she had spent the entire trip alone. She was walking along a cobblestone street and complaining about her shoes, she was going … going … God, where the hell had she been going?
“Bed!” I exclaimed out loud, opening my eyes to face him. “She was down the street from the inn, and she was going to bed. But then, she saw this guy in a pub window. She … she mentioned his eyes! He had green eyes, she said, and that he looked good but could only see the upper half of his body. So, so, so …” I chanted as the wheels of my brain turned with the movement of my hand. “So, it must’ve been a pretty big window, right? We have to look for a pub with a big, clear window.”
Brodie’s lips curled into a victorious smile as he leaned back on the stool, planting his hands against his hips. “Ye’re gonna make an excellent partner,” he complimented, nodding approvingly.
“Maybe, but I probably shouldn’t quit my day job,” I muttered, grabbing my fork and stabbing a piece of chicken.
“What do ye do?”
A Circle of Crows Page 9
