Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
“Yeah, that’s your reason.” I arch a brow. “Why’d you fire him then?”
“Oh, he simply wasn’t able to keep up with the rigors of the job in his advancing age,” she replies, almost before I finish asking the question. A little too eager. “Frankly, I believe he may have been suffering from a touch of dementia, possibly substance abuse. He started behaving erratically, sometimes turning hostile with the other staff. He was only a few years away from retiring with a pension. It was a shame to let him go, really.” She clucks her tongue. Dutiful sympathy. “I never thought being fired would push him over the edge, though, the poor man. Suicide? God. If only he’d taken our advice and gotten professional help.”
There’s that psych degree at work, making her a magnificent storyteller.
I just stare at her for several long seconds before I say, “I never said it was a suicide.”
She freezes, but her eyes betray nothing.
“Well, yes, but what else could it be?” she asks, almost impatiently. “You tell me he’s been poisoned—there’s no one who would hurt a dear old man. And with how he was behaving, it seems entirely in character.”
“Sure it does.” I lean forward, propping my elbows on my knees, watching her intently. “So that’s your story? You fired him and it drove him to suicide by poison, and now you’ve got no earthly idea why he’s been running around town acting all weird and scaring people?”
“Scaring people?”
I nod. “Just a few encounters. Always startling and unpleasant.”
“How terrible. My, I’d have to say it’s the dementia,” she says glibly. “I do hope now that he’s in the right custody, he can get the help he needs.”
Dementia.
Right.
Guess that’s her story and she’s sticking to it.
I also don’t think I’m gonna get anything else out of her tonight, though.
Not without telling her things that might get her and Montero and possibly that sleazy fucking son of theirs sniffing around.
Trouble is, they hold too much weight around here.
If they tried to get in at the medical center no one would stop them, not even after overhearing what me and Ophelia said to him about the Arrendells.
So when Lucia asks, “Is there anything else I can help you with, Captain Faircross?” in an expectant tone, I shrug.
“Not right now.” I heft myself up from the chair. “I’ll be in touch, though.”
“Come now, Captain,” she says, and dimples at me with girlish innocence, so out of place in her razor of a face. “I hope that won’t be necessary, will it?”
I storm off without answering.
Yeah, I really don’t know how I’m gonna tell Ophelia I haven’t gotten much of anything.
Though it’s kind of implied.
TV likes to show you these genius cops who crack hard cases from sunrise to sundown, wrapping things up quick and easy. That’s not how it is.
Real police work is slow and plodding, chasing every tiny detail, one long waiting game that might not have a payoff at the end.
Sometimes you gotta be the ticker in Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart, beating away under the floorboards until just by knowing you’re there, waiting, your suspect cracks and does the hard sleuthing work for you.
Still, I wish I had something to tell her when I get home and drag through the door.
Something besides waiting around while forensics tests those bones, seeing if we can get a match on DNA or dental records to ID the victim.
Especially when I find Ophelia curled up on the couch and crying her eyes out.
Every thought of Mason Law, Cora Lafayette, and the scummy Arrendell clan goes flying out of my head.
I barely remember to close the door as I cross the floor quickly, dropping to my knees in front of the sofa and reaching for her hands.
“Philia?” I breathe. “Butterfly, what’s wrong?”
“No—no, I—”
She shakes her head quickly.
Fuck, it nearly wrenches my heart to bits when she pulls her hands away, rejecting my touch.
It almost breaks me, but I let her.
I ain’t gonna force her through that much hurt.
Sometimes all a man can do is know when to give his woman space.
Craning my head, I try to catch her wide, wet eyes again.
“Ophelia, talk to me. What happened? Did they call about Angela?”
“No, but they could!” she bursts out. “That’s... that’s the problem, you see.”
She’s got this pleading look.
Like she expects me to have an answer when I don’t even know the question.
“Babe, hey. Hey, whatever’s upsetting you, we can talk through it, okay?” I reach out tentatively, holding her chin up with my fingers. “Can you slow down and start over? Rewind a little and clue me in. I’m right the fuck here. I’m always listening.”
Sniffling, Ophelia doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, looking away from me and rubbing her red, raw nose.
When she finally speaks, it’s through trembling lips. “I just—I can’t do this, Grant.”