What We May Be: An MMF Romantic Mystery Page 8

  Sean interrupted her speculation with a bitter groan. “Marie’s holding up better than me.”

  She laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sean.”

  Sean covered it with his own, clutching her fingers. When he spoke again, agony and regret were etched in every word. “I’d blocked it out, everything about Hanover, about the family I’d lost here. And I avoided my other family too, lost how many years with them because if I couldn’t have both of you, it was easier to just be gone.” The next instant, Sean rocketed to his feet, and Charlie vaulted to her knees, bracing him with a hand to his hip, holding him steady until his wobbling ceased and his pacing began. “Fuck! What am I doing here? In Hanover, talking to a family that’s no longer mine, putting you and Trevor through hell. Why am I not with Marie and Saul? Fuck!” He plowed his fingers through his hair and yanked on the ends. “I just want to do right by all of you, and all I seem to do is make the wrong decisions and let all of you down.”

  Her heart stopped, stuttered, then hammered double time. She was right. When Sean had left Hanover that night after graduation, she’d suspected he hadn’t done so voluntarily. It didn’t square with the man she loved. But if Saul had been sick, the Sean she knew would rush to his side, especially after all the Paxtons had done for him. But why hadn’t he told them? Why hadn’t he made contact or come back? Why, when Cal went after him, did Sean say there was nothing to come back to? That didn’t square with a man who put duty and obligation first, who, unable to sacrifice his duty to one for the other, had thought he had to run from both families he so clearly loved.

  Charlie rose the rest of the way and cut in front of Sean, halting his swerving circuit. “Sean, why didn’t you tell us? Trevor and I would have been there for you.” She laid her hands on his chest like she’d done that morning a month ago. Except this time there was something under his shirt. No, two somethings. She pushed aside his collar and lifted out not one but two necklaces—his and Trevor’s CWS gifts from her. She gasped. Nothing about this fucking squared. “Why didn’t you come home to us?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” His chest rose and fell under her hands, his breaths heavy and ragged. “All that matters is I left you and Trevor and Saul and Marie. Both my families.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Nothin’s been right since.”

  But it did matter, Charlie was beginning to sense. Maybe more than any of them realized. Another mystery on her plate to unravel, one that had nagged at her for a decade. But Sean, the other investigator she needed, was in no shape to get into either case tonight. He was too caught up in regret and despair, past and present.

  He let out a long, shuddering sigh before he lifted his arms and covered her hands with his, holding them to his chest, holding her close. Same as she’d done with Trevor back at Annie’s, the three of them inextricably linked. “I’m so sorry, Charlie. For leaving, for coming back, for being a coward.”

  Like she had with Trevor earlier, Charlie leaned forward and rested her head on his shoulder, offering comfort more than taking it this time. Thinking about the choices she’d made to protect her own family and considering the choices Sean had had to make too, choices until tonight she’d never known about. “We all made the only decisions we could. I’m sorry too.” If she had any hope of Sean forgiving hers, she needed to work on also understanding—and forgiving—his.

  Chapter Eight

  Julian Hirsch eased open the well-oiled back door of his home and peered inside, checking for any signs of life in the darkened house. Cocking his wrist, the glowing digital face of his watch read half past two in the morning. As it was Monday, his wife’s shift at the hospital didn’t end until five, so he should be in the clear. But he had to be careful, considering.

  “Darling, are you home?”

  Hearing no response, he continued across the threshold and flipped on the overhead lights in the mudroom. He braced a hand on the built-in organizer, toed off his shoes, tucked them into a cubbyhole, and dropped his wallet and keys into the catchall drawer. Phone in hand, he scrolled through his contacts until he found the fictional name he was looking for.

  He tapped out a quick text message. Need to see you again. He thought for a moment on when his wife’s next graveyard shift fell. Wednesday night? He hoped the extra touch of desperation would be enough to convince her. He didn’t have to wait long.

  See you then, Professor, came her reply.

  His cock stiffened at the prospect of another few rounds like tonight. Wednesday couldn’t come soon enough. Smirking, he deleted the incriminating text messages, slipped his phone back into his pocket, and pulled off his shirt. He was about to toss it in the laundry basket when a shimmer of pink lip-gloss on the collar caught his eye. He attempted to rub the stain out with his thumb but only made it worse.

  “Damn it.”

  He turned on the hot water in the utility sink and held the shirt collar under the faucet. After a few minutes of scrubbing with detergent, the damning stain was hardly noticeable, but his wife’s well-trained eye would probably see it. He spotted a few mounds of sorted dirty clothes, then glanced at his watch again, quickly doing the math in his head. He had enough time to do a few loads before she got home—one might look suspicious, but three would look like a good husbandly deed. Starting with the load of towels, he tossed the shirt in with them, added an overflowing cup of detergent, and set it to run on heavy duty.

  Problem solved.

  Wiping his hands on his pants, he turned off the lights and left the laundry room, padding barefoot through the moonlit first floor of his refurbished Southern colonial. His foot landed on the second step of the curved staircase and a loud click rang out behind him. Whirling, his stomach lurched as he stared into the shadows.

  Had his wife come home early?

  Was there someone else in the house?

  His eyes and ears frantically searched for the source of the noise. Seconds later, he jumped out of his skin at another loud click.

  He reversed a step, his fingers white-knuckling the banister. “Who’s there?”

  His question was answered by a whoosh of water filling the washing machine. Breathing a shaky sigh of relief, he released his death grip on the railing and chuckled at himself for getting worked up over the washer’s safety lock.

  He shook his head at the silly fit of paranoia and climbed the stairs the rest of the way to the second floor. In the master bedroom, he discarded his phone on the bedside table and shed his pants and undershirt on the way to the bathroom. Under the bright vanity lights, he inspected his appearance in the mirror, looking for any scratches or hickeys, an unfortunate side effect of bedding coeds who often got carried away. Finding none, he cranked on the shower, turned it to hot, and hopped in, rinsing off any evidence his wife might otherwise detect. He indulged in the spray a couple extra minutes before turning off the water and toweling dry.

  He swiped clean the vanity mirror to make one last examination.

  This time, he wasn’t alone.

  “You do like ’em young, don’t you, Julian?” sneered the visage standing behind him. “And only a few months back from the honeymoon. Guess that’s over.”

  He struggled to find a voice for the questions swirling in his mind. Too late. The reflection rushed him, aiming a gloved fist at his neck, a silver needle glinting in the light. Spinning, Julian raised his hands. Too late again. The needle punctured his throat and cool liquid rushed into his veins. He batted the needle away and his assailant scurried past him, out of the bathroom. Julian moved to chase—one step, two steps—before his legs gave out, dropping him to his knees on the slick tile floor.

  A cold, hard cackle sent chills down his spine. He’d never been more terrified in his life. Crawling into the bedroom on his hands and knees, his fear multiplied tenfold as he watched through increasingly hazy eyes as his attacker removed several thick ropes from a duffel and expertly knotted one to each bedpost.

  “What’re you…going to do…to me?”

&nb
sp; He collapsed onto his side as the world spun, his heart beating like a jackhammer, but the pumping blood did nothing to stir his immobile limbs. It was a struggle to lift his head, to force his eyelids to stay open so he could stare up at the person who, he realized with startling clarity, was going to end his life.

  “Only what you deserve, Julian.” The reaper fluffed a pillow between gloved hands. “Only what you deserve.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sean woke reluctantly, the pounding in his head amplified by the pounding on his motel room door. Groaning, he cracked open an eye and glanced at the bedside clock glowing six on the dot. Way too fucking early after a long night and a bottle of scotch. Rolling onto his stomach, he covered his head with a pillow and attempted to ignore the world.

  The world knocked again.

  Did everyone in Hanover know where he was staying?

  Probably. He had forgotten how fast word traveled in a small town. Even with much of Hanover’s population rotating each academic year, the homegrown locals gossiped. But would any of the locals wake him at this ungodly hour? With that authoritative knock? He didn’t think so, which meant either Trevor or HPD.

  Possibly Charlie.

  It had been late when she’d dropped him off at the hotel last night. There were still questions that needed answers and a similar conversation to be had with and an apology to be made to Trevor. But despite the dark circles under Charlie’s eyes last night, they’d seemed warmer, a touch brighter when they’d left the cemetery, and an immeasurable weight had lifted off Sean’s chest. He’d given her the apology she deserved, and she’d offered an apology of her own. For what, he had no idea, but he was sure her sins could be no worse than his.

  The past ones, at least.

  Charlie’s voice floated out of the dark. “Sean, it’s me. Open up.”

  He tossed aside the pillow and levered onto his elbows, listening intently, not sure if what he’d heard was real or a dream. But then the knocking came again, closer, against the sliding glass door of the bedroom, followed by Charlie’s words, also closer… and louder. “I know it’s early, Sean, but wake up.”

  Grimacing, he rolled to the side of the bed, switched on the lamp, and swung his feet to the floor. Padding to the door, he pulled aside the slatted blinds and, squinting into the dark, saw Charlie standing on the tiny patio outside, her face illuminated by her phone light. She looked as tired as he felt, but there was a giant cup with a coffee logo on it in her free hand.

  He pushed back the blinds, opened the door, and beckoned her inside. She entered and thrust the cup in his direction. “Drink,” she ordered, then moved around him and his motel room, pulling clothes out of the dresser and tossing them on the bed, then flipping on lights and running water in the bathroom.

  Caffeine waking his brain, he was on the verge of asking what was going on when the telltale rattle of the ibuprofen bottle he always carried greeted his ears. Sweet relief. Charlie returned, exchanging the coffee for a glass of water and three tablets. He downed the water and pills, handed the glass back to her with a mumbled “Thanks,” then reclaimed the coffee.

  With each sip of brew, the fog cleared more, and he noticed Charlie was dressed impeccably for the hour. Not police blues but professional—heels, pant suit, a green silk top—and as she moved, her shiny badge and holstered weapon were visible on her hip. Looking beyond her attire, Sean observed her rigid posture, the deep crease between her eyes, and the precise and methodical way she invaded his space. Efficient yet vibrating with anxious energy.

  “There’s been another death,” he surmised. “A murder.” No shying away from that now. If there was another death, and if she was involving him, then it was connected to Jeff’s case, which was no longer a suicide.

  “Shower and dress.” She took the coffee from him and downed a giant gulp, scowling. She’d never been a fan of it black. “We’re needed at the crime scene.” Confirming his speculation. But that didn’t explain the strange, edgy energy radiating off her. This was more than professional Charlie; something had triggered a personal response.

  “You knew the victim.” When she didn’t respond, he asked, “Who was it?”

  “Julian Hirsch.”

  “Who’s Julian Hirsch?”

  “A professor at HU and Tracy Hirsch’s husband.”

  “Who’s Tracy Hirsch?” he said, sensing he wasn’t going to like the answer. Which came to him the next second. “Wait, Tracy? As in—”

  Charlie nodded. “Trevor’s ex-wife.”

  Sean trailed Charlie up the steps of a massive Southern colonial style house, the morning sun glinting off the wide white columns. Abel stood on the porch beside Tracy, a petite brunet dressed in nurse’s scrubs. Sean recognized her from the engagement photos of her and Trevor he’d downloaded in one of his check-up sweeps before he’d stopped doing them. Tracy’s smiling face in those photos was nothing like the expression she wore now. As her red-rimmed eyes cut to Charlie, grieving widow and spitting mad both played across her face, and Sean would bet every last cent in his bank account that Charlie was the last person Tracy wanted to see right then.

  “What are you doing here?” she spat in Charlie’s direction.

  Definitely not who Tracy wanted to see.

  “Now, Tracy,” Abel cajoled. “Charlie’s the best detective we’ve got. You want her on this case.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Tracy.” Charlie’s genuine sympathy in the face of Tracy’s contempt was admirable. “We’ll find out who did this.”

  And did nothing to blunt the harsh edge of Tracy’s anger and grief. “You can start by talking to my ex-husband.”

  Sean stepped forward, next to Charlie. “What’s Trevor got to do with this?”

  Tracy’s blue eyes cut to him. “Who are you?”

  He withdrew is badge and flipped it open, flashing his credentials. She looked impressed, until he said his name. “Agent Sean Hale.”

  Sean didn’t think eyes could roll that hard. “Ah, the Sean Hale, I presume. Of course you’re here too.” She swung a weary glare back at Abel and Charlie. “My life is ruined. Again. I’m sure Trevor and your lot have something to do with it.” She turned on her heel and stormed inside, shoving her way through the solid wall of Diego and Jaylen. She hurried through the brightly lit foyer and into what Sean guessed was a powder room under the stairs and slammed the door shut.

  “Well,” Charlie said, “that went about as well as I expected.”

  “Bad blood?” Sean asked as they crossed the threshold into the foyer.

  Abel half laughed, half choked. “Understatement of the year.”

  Sean would have queried further except Diego and Jaylen had joined them and additional gossip seemed inappropriate, given the circumstances.

  “How bad?” Charlie asked the officers.

  Jaylen covered his mouth and gulped behind his fingers.

  Diego patted the younger officer’s back. “About like the last one.” Which Jaylen had only seen in crime scene photos. This case was probably one of the more gruesome in his time with the department, considering. “Maggie’s up there with the techs.”

  “When did the call come into the station?” Sean asked.

  “Five thirty, when Tracy got home from work.” He shifted his attention to Charlie and Abel. “You mind if we step outside for some air?”

  “Go.” Charlie waved them out, then turned a grim face to her uncle. “Go get Trevor. Bring him to the station.”

  The chief shifted on his feet, a far more subtle movement than Sean spinning around, slack-jawed. “You don’t think he had anything to do with this?” He’d been gone a while, but surely Trevor hadn’t changed that much.

  “No, of course not,” Charlie said. “I just don’t want him hearing about this from anyone else.” She glanced around his shoulder to Abel. “He’s got a class at eight. He should be up and about.”

  “You got it, sugar.”

  “We should call city hall too. Mister Mayor will wan
t an update.”

  “I’ll get Wally on it,” Abel said, departing with the phone to his ear already.

  Sean inhaled deep, cracked his neck, and tapped his toes like he would at the baseball plate. Getting ready for whatever pitch was thrown their way. He started for the stairs, but Charlie’s hand in the crook of his arm stopped him. It was the first time she’d touched him since last night, and heat cascaded from the spot. “I need to make a call,” she said, and he struggled to focus on anything but that simple touch. “I’m not gonna make it to Wilmington by ten. Any pointers for dealing with Conder?”

  That snapped him out of it. Fuck, her interview was this morning. She was right; there was no way she was going to make it. “Explain it’s for a case,” he said. “He values commitment to the job. He’ll understand.”

  “Thank you.” She released his arm, the warmth lingering, continuing to smolder, stoked by the fact she’d asked him for help with Conder and with the crime scene. He’d take those nuggets of trust. Would work for more. While she detoured into the dining room off the foyer, Sean busied himself inspecting the front door. No sign of forced entry. He walked down the hallway to the back of the house. No damage to the patio door either. Off the kitchen, the mudroom was a mess to tiptoe through—the washer had overflowed, and sudsy water covered the floor—but there was no sign anyone had tampered with that door either.

  So a window… or a key… or a lock pick. Or Julian had left a door unlocked. On his way out of the room, Sean noticed the alarm panel and made a mental note to request records.

  “Sean!” Charlie shouted from the foyer.

  “Sorry,” he said, hustling back to her. “Was just checking the doors.” With a pair of duty officers milling around the living room, he carefully worded his next question. “All good with your appointment?”

  “Moved it to tomorrow.” She climbed the stairs ahead of him. “You find anything?”