“What happened?” All joking aside, I focus solely on her. Did someone hurt her? Is she in danger? She goes head-to-head with monsters on a daily basis. Is she being threatened?
“Can we talk in private, please?” she asks, gesturing back toward the room.
I nod and head back inside, shutting the door as she takes a seat. “What is it?” All of my earlier frustrations have melted away, leaving me entirely focused on whatever it is she needs.
“I don’t know how much you know about me, Detective, but ten years ago, I lost my husband in a plane crash. It was ruled an accident. A catastrophic engine failure due to a failure in his routine pre-flight check.”
I study the way her gaze darts around the room. The way she fidgets with her hands when she talks. I hadn’t even known she’d been married before, but I don’t bring that up because it has no merit in this conversation. “Based on your tone, I’m assuming you don’t agree?”
She shakes her head. “Something just doesn’t add up. He was an excellent pilot, Detective. Heneverwould have made a mistake on his pre-flight checklist.”
Detective.Didn’t our terrible first date at least put us past formalities?I did call her Counselor,I remind myself. “People get busy,” I reply. “They get so caught up in the routine that they don’t think about what it is they’re doing as they’re doing it.” God knows I’ve been that way with my faith nearly my entire adult life.
Getting so caught up in repeating the same words over and over again that I didn’t stop to think about what they meant.
It’s something I’ve been working on.
“Not Paul. He considered his checklists to be non-negotiable. He’d push a flight time before he’d skip anything. He’d done it before, even lost clients over it. But it wasn’t something he’d ever falter on.”
She’s desperate; I can see it all over her face. And desperation makes smart people do stupid things. Such as dragging out a closed and sealed case just to ease one’s own grief. Besides, it’s been ten years. Why start looking into it now?
“If you’re so sure, why not have the Hunts look into things for you? Isn’t that what they do? Get answers when no one else can?”
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, frustration clearly setting in. “Look, I could ask them, but I don’t want to. I needyourhelp because you’re here. I don’t want to interrupt their lives when there might not be anything there.”
But you’ll crash mine.The bit of joy I get from knowing she came to me first is short-lived when I watch her work to compose herself. Something has Beckett rattled. And from what I know of her, that doesn’t come easily.
“You said you need my help because I’m here. I’m assuming his accident was in Seattle?” I run through my memories, trying to recall a plane crash in this area, but the only one I remember from around a decade ago was, in fact, in Mount Rainier National Park.
Was that him?
“Yes. In Mount Rainier National Park.” She rips open her purse and withdraws a manila envelope. After removing a photograph, she slams both onto the table and stands. “That is my husband.” She points to a smiling man wearing darksunglasses. “Paul Jameson.” It’s the first time she’s said his name since walking in here, and I can hear the ache in her tone.
Ten years or not, this man was her husband. That kind of grief never really leaves you. Or, so I’ve heard.
“And who is this?” I ask, gesturing to a man with his back to the camera.
“I have no idea.”
“Hmm.” Beneath the photograph are the wordsThe truth starts in Seattle.“Where did you get this?”
“It was slid under my apartment door back in Boston two nights ago.”
“Boston?”
She nods.
“If this was given to you in Boston, do you not think it’s possible that someone is trying to rile you up? That this is a photograph from a normal trip, and they’re using it to get to you?”
“Like you are now?” she snaps, then pinches the bridge of her nose. “Look, I’m sorry. This has been haunting me for a decade. I know it doesn’t make sense, but Iknowsomething is off, and this is the first bit of evidence I have that I’m right. If you won’t help me, then I’ll find someone else.” She grips the photograph, but I grab her wrist to still her hand.
The contact sends a shock shooting straight through my arm, so I let her go. It’s always been that way between us, ever since we met. But as the one single date we went on once the Riley Hunt/Jules Landers case was wrapped up proved, there’s nothing here but attraction. And that’s not nearly enough to build a future on.
“I’ll look into it, okay? See if I can dig anything up. But I want you to prepare yourself for the fact that there likely isn’t anything to find.”
Her gaze softens ever so slightly. “You won’t find any fingerprints aside from mine on the photograph or the envelope it came in. I had a friend check for me.”
“Noted.”
