“How do you know it's even a he?”
He crouched in front of her suitcases and looked over his shoulder. “Do ye really think a woman did this?”
The carpet was plush and gave beneath my heavy feet as I crossed the room, shaking my head. “No, but I feel like, you can't completely rule it out either. Right? I mean, what if you're hunting for a man, when really, it was a woman?”
He shook his head, looking off beyond me. “I'm all for gender equality, Rosie, but it doesnae add up. Grace was put there. She was carried through the woods and then laid on that stone. A woman workin' alone wouldae had difficulty doin' that. The body wouldae been dragged, unless we're dealin' with someone verra strong, but …” He shook his head again, shaking away the apparently absurd notion that a woman was capable of committing the crime. “No. We're lookin' for a man.”
“Maybe a man and woman worked together,” I offered for argument's sake, crouching beside him.
“Hm.”
Her dark, filigree-printed luggage was stacked between the heavy panels of a purple velvet curtain. It had struck me before, but it hit harder now, how perfectly the pile of suitcases was displayed, in size order and framed in luxury. It was so picturesque and pleasing to the eye, it seemed sinful to disturb them at all.
“My parents gave her these at her bridal shower,” I said, reaching out with shaking fingers to touch the largest suitcase, and run my hand over its textured fabric. “She returned Matt's set but kept hers. She said she liked them too much to get rid of them, even though she never really expected to go anywhere.”
Alec said nothing. Instead, he stood and pulled out a pair of gloves from his coat pocket. He put them on, then grabbed the first bag from the pile and laid it on the bed. The zipper was pulled with a metallic buzz and the lid was flipped open without a single ounce of care. Without warning, he began to rifle through its contents. Gracie's underwear was shaken out, one by one, before being tossed into a heap on the bed, as I watched, still crouched on the floor.
“What are you doing?” I asked, horrified by his complete disregard for my feelings or Gracie's.
“Lookin' for anythin' suspicious.”
“But,” I slowly stood and came to stand by his side, “can't you do it a little more—”
“A little more, what?” He turned his hardened gaze on me, while holding a lacy pair of underwear. “Ye want me to take my time and lay each of her things on the bed with the utmost care?”
I blinked, not knowing what to say. I still wasn't used to his hot and cold demeanor. How kind he could be one more and then how quickly he could turn it off.
“I-I don't—”
“It isnae that I don’t want to care,” he interrupted hurriedly, casting the pink lace aside. “I just don’t have the time. As it is, I've wasted enough.”
He didn't give me a chance to speak, before continuing to dig through her negligee. Then, frustrated by the tedious nature of the task, he cursed underneath his breath and turned the entire bag over. An assortment of fabrics and color was strewn across the bedspread, and on top of it all, was the little red, velvet box I remembered so well.
Before Alec could snatch it for himself, I grabbed it, and he grumbled something about getting my fingerprints all over the evidence. But I didn't care about that, as I opened the jewelry box and found it empty.
“Was she wearing her engagement ring?”
With his hands on his hips, Alec blew out a breath and asked, “What?”
I turned to look at him, as I held out the box where her engagement ring had once been. “After she broke up with her fiancé, she put her ring in this box and never took it out. I didn't even know she had brought it with her, but …” I stared at the box's barren cushion, as if I could will the thing back into existence. “I don't know why it wouldn't be in here.”
“I dinnae remember if she was wearin' any jewelry,” he admitted.
“Well, Sherlock,” I said, tucking the box into my pocket, “I guess we better find out.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ALEC
After deciding to finally take Grace’s belongings with us and loading them quickly into the boot of my car, Rosie and I drove back to the house with a new purpose. When we returned, I flipped through the pictures until I found those of her hands, only to discover the ring was indeed missing. And while it wasn't the most original development in a case, it was something. And something was always better than nothing.
“We don't know that whoever killed her has it,” Rosie said, as we ate the Chinese food Rick had ordered for dinner.
“That’s true, but unlikely,” I offered. “The only other reasonable explanation would be that it was stolen—”
“Or maybe she sold it,” Rosie threw in pointedly, raising a finger. “Maybe she decided to just be done with it and got rid of the damn thing.”
I grumbled as I shook my head. “Mmm … I suppose it’s possible, but again, unlikely.”
Rosie opened her mouth, most likely to protest, when TJ made his presence known with a loud sigh.
“Why would she even bring it?” TJ muttered, looking across the table at his mother. “She hated it.”
Rosie shrugged, offering her son a melancholic smile. “I don't know, honey. I mean …” She sighed and planted her elbows against the table, setting her eyes on the chandelier overhead. “I carried my wedding rings for months, even though I wasn't wearing them anymore. People deal with things in different ways, so maybe GiGi just liked to keep it close.”
I had never spoken of my ex-wife or divorce as much as I had in the past few days, and I wasn't sure what that meant. But even despite my reservations, I found myself saying, “I kept my weddin' ring in my wallet until I moved back to Fort Crow. It just felt wrong not to keep it on me.”
With a glance in my direction, Rosie nodded. “It's hard to just … give something up that's been a part of you for so long.”
My eyes met hers for a fleeting moment of mutual understanding before TJ groaned and my attention was yanked in his direction once again.
“I wish we could just ask her,” he said, thrusting a hand into his floppy, limp mohawk. “God, it's all such bullshit. It's just …” His voice was choked on the words as he dropped his hand and pushed away from the table. “It's just s-so fucking unfair.”
He hurried out of the room, to slam a door somewhere in the house, and Rosie quickly dropped her fork and began to get up, when I stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm.
“Maybe give him a minute.”
Startled, she stared at my fingers, and I pulled my hand back as quickly as it had been placed against her skin. I turned my attention back on my dinner, as I threatened my palm to forget the feeling of her soft, warm skin.
“Are ye okay?” Rick asked, and I looked to him, foolishly thinking that his question might have been for me. But it wasn't. He was looking at Rosie, and when I glanced to the left of me, I understood why.
Her fingers were wrapped so tightly around her fork, her knuckles shone white beneath the stretched skin, and her chest fell heavily with every shallow breath. Desperately trying to maintain her composure, she swallowed repeatedly, with her eyes closed and lips parted, and I decided I didn't care about my resistance to feel for this woman. What I cared about now was to make sure she knew she wasn't alone, and that if this was all too much for her to handle, then she didn't need to handle it at all.
“Rosie.” I dropped my fork and turned in my seat. I took her hand in mine, pulling the utensil from her rigid fingers, and commanded her body to face mine with my hands against her shoulders. “Rosie. Look at me.”
She pried her eyes open, and although she didn't speak, I assumed I had her attention. “Ye dinnae need to do this, y'ken. I know I keep sayin’ it, but I’m sayin’ it again. Ye can leave with yer son, take yer sister's ashes and go home. Ye can forget about all of this shite, and know that I will take care of it. I willnae forget her, and I will make sure her murderer is found.”
***
Sleep had truly become a distant and missed friend. That was typical of me, whenever I found my head wound too tightly around a case. But this particular one had consumed more than just my ability to take a nap. It had also crushed my appetite and my desire to think of anything else. With the exception of a woman who was also tied down by the murder of Grace Allan.
I stared at Rick’s photograph of Grace’s hand, looking beyond the shimmering red varnish on her fingernails, and wondered if I should venture upstairs and knock on her sister’s door. Rosie was obviously struggling with the grief of losing her sister. She was sitting right in the eye of the storm, while ignoring the debris swirling violently all around her. I feared what would happen when it all came to an ugly head, and I feared that it would happen while she was helping me on this case.
The guilt of getting her involved was always never far from my mind. I wished she would leave, or at the very least stay out of it. Yet, I was also so selfishly glad that she was staying, and I was one touch of her hand away from completely hating myself for it. If only I possessed the power to turn off my undeniable attraction to her.
Whispered footsteps drew my attention away from the picture, and I turned my head toward the kitchen doorway, half expecting to see the one-footed corpse of Grace Allan, shuffling her way into the room. I was grateful to see it wasn’t.
“Ye cannae sleep again?” I asked, as Rosie slid onto the chair beside me.
Her frustration was evident in the way she blew out a heavy breath and shook her head. “I just keep seeing her.”
“Do ye wanna tell me about it?”
She huffed an agitated sigh. “I just don’t know what good it will do to even talk about it. It’s not going to change anything or bring her back, so why bother?”
Releasing a breath, I turned my eyes to the pictures and nodded. “Well, then let me ask ye this. What do ye want?”
“What do I want?”
“Aye.”
Rosie snickered, shaking her head. “What I want is for Gracie to be back. That’s what I want. I don’t want to talk about her or dream about her or think about how she was killed. I just want to be able to pick up the phone, dial her number, and know that she’s gonna pick up. That’s what I want. I want her.”
She clapped a hand over her mouth before releasing a sob that she let drown against her palm. She sniffled loudly and shook her head, closing her eyes tightly as the tears began to quickly slip down her cheeks. I didn’t wait for permission or for her emotions to subside, as I quickly stood and crossed the kitchen to the cupboard where Rick kept the glasses. I grabbed two, then retrieved a bottle of whisky from the counter, before returning to the table. I poured each of us a wee dram, and Rosie released a watery chuckle.
“You’re kidding, right? I need more than that.”
So, I poured out some more, then handed her one of the full glasses.
“Thanks,” she said, before knocking it back and downing half the glass. She swallowed violently against the sting of alcohol and blinked her eyes rapidly. “Wow.”
After taking a wee sip, I laughed. “It’s verra strong. I shouldae warned ye.”
“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “It’s exactly what I needed.”
The kitchen fell silent to the shouts and screams of our thoughts, and I struggled to think of what to say to drown them out. But what was there? The woman was in pain, and what could I offer other than the guarantee of catching the bastard who had committed the crime to cause said pain? I had nothing, or nothing she wanted, anyway. So, I stayed quiet and waited for her to speak.
After finishing her drink, she handed me the glass and demanded more. I obliged without protest, and this time, she lightly sipped at the whisky, before cupping the etched crystal in her hands.
“Tell me about your ex-wife,” she said, and I guffawed, startled by the unexpected request.
“Why would ye wanna hear about her?”
She shrugged. “Why not?”
Shaking my head, I uncorked the bottle of whisky again and filled my glass, as I said, “Because she has nothin’ to do with anythin’.”
Rosie snickered and brought her drink to her lips. “I disagree. I think she has a lot to do with the way you are.”
“The way I am?” I parroted, narrowing my eyes. “And what the hell kind of presumptuous shite is that?”
Rosie shook her head, as she lowered the glass to the table. “No, I … I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. You’ve just got this thing about you, like you actually care more than let on, but you’re holding back. And maybe I’m completely wrong about that, in which case I’m sorry, but …” She shrugged, clearly embarrassed and regretful. I groaned in reply and hastily made the decision to lower my guard.
“We divorced a year ago,” I told her, as I shuffled the pictures into a neat pile and slid them into their folder, knowing I wouldn’t be going back to them again for some time. “I saw it comin’ for a long time.”
“You didn’t love her?”
“It was a type of love,” I said after a moment of consideration. “Just not the right kind.”
Rosie nodded. “I loved my ex-husband, so freakin' much. And in a way, I still do, but it’s … a different love now. Honestly, he’s one of my best friends.” Then, she turned to me, a welcomed hint of laughter in her eyes. “Is that weird?”
I snorted, as I brought the whisky to my lips. “Does it really matter what I think?”
Rosie swallowed, then said, “It shouldn’t, no. But … yeah. For some reason, it does.”
The comment came across as a confession, and I let the scotch roll around in my mouth, as if it were her words singeing my tongue and warming my soul. The familiar feelings of attraction were wasting no time in bubbling to the surface again, completely against my control, but Christ, I wished they wouldn’t.
“It’s not weird,” I finally replied, after swallowing. “It's nice, that you can have that kinda relationship with the father of your child.”
“Would you have divorced your wife if it hadn't been for the miscarriage?”
The question felt abrupt and startled me. I choked on nothing, coughing and sputtering, and she apologized with a smack of her palm against her forehead.
“I'm sorry. That's none of my fucking business. Let's just blame the booze and forget—”
“We’d already been in the process of divorcin' when she found out she was pregnant,” I found myself admitting, a truth I hadn't even told my father. “We hadnae been happy for a verra long time, and I knew I couldnae stay with her, not with a good conscience. But then, after one fuckin' night of drinkin', she got pregnant.”
Rosie's cheeks puffed as she blew out a breath. “Shit.”
“Indeed,” I snorted, nodding slowly, as I faintly remembered that fated night of drunken sex and the gut-wrenching moment in which she had told me she had gotten pregnant. “It felt like it might have been a second chance, y’ken? Like, even though I had expressed not wantin’ children, it still felt like what we had been lookin' for to fix our shite marriage. So, we decided to give it another go, and three months later …”
My shoulders shrugged against the grief of losing my only chance of being a father, and I grabbed the bottle of whisky to refill my glass. I listened to Rosie breathe at my side, as the amber liquid sloshed against the crystal, and then, she sighed.
“I wish we could go somewhere else,” she muttered. “Like, a bar or something.”
I also wished as much, as I felt the walls of the kitchen move in to crush the air from my lungs, while the dreaded memories threatened to consume my mind. But even though the bars and pubs were still open, and they would be for hours, too much was at stake, and a change of scenery
wasn't worth the risk.
But just because we couldn't leave the premises, didn't mean there was nowhere to go.
Grabbing the bottle and my glass, I stood from the table and headed for the doors to the back of the kitchen. Rosie asked where I was going, and I simply replied, “Somewhere else,” before opening one of the doors and stepping into the dark, misty night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ROSIE
The moment I had set my eyes on Tom, my stomach fluttered with an army of butterflies, and my heart whispered the things my mind was so reluctant to acknowledge, knowing I would marry him one day. But what my soul's premonition forgot to tell me, was we would also, one day, find ourselves better friends than lovers, and that our divorce would be a necessary evil to keep the peace between us.
Still, I never once regretted our marriage or the time we'd spent together.
Now, as I trudged beside Alec Brodie through wildflowers and tall, wispy grass, I stared at him, amid the tipsy fog clouding my brain.
He seemed to walk through a permanent veil of darkness, with his head hung and his shoulders slumped forward, like he was carrying the weight of the world alone. His hair was in a constant state of dishevel, his face always dusted in thick stubble, and his brows were lowered over brooding eyes. While most men would have worn the look with purposeful arrogance, there was nothing overtly arrogant about Alec. He was simply who he was, without any irony or conceit, and I hadn't been this attracted to a man since feasting my hormonal, teenage eyes on Bruce Springsteen.
If meeting Tom had been a brush of God's hand against my back, guiding me in his direction, then meeting Alec was a violent shove.
He led us to a circular garden, lit sparingly with a few iron lanterns, hidden against a purposely chaotic backdrop of shrubbery, thistle, and grass. An arranged palette of multicolored flowers bordered the circle, and there, in the center, was a worn, marble bench.
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