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Queen is singing Crazy Little Thing Called Love. Thank you, Freddie. Because I saw Eve go in earlier and I’m stuck in the what-ifs.
What if Burke is right?
I know you’re thinking, about what? Wait for it, I’ll explain.
After leaving the Foxes’, I headed back to Minneapolis and stopped off at the University of Minnesota to check on Hollie Larue, the latest victim. Some passers-by found her half-drowned in the river near the 35W bridge. A waitress from Mahones, she’s blonde, pretty, in her early twenties, and fits the profile of the Jackson victims exactly. Beaten, sexually assaulted and strangled, with a twenty dollar bill tucked in her fist, the words, “Thank you for your service,” written in black sharpie across Jackson’s face.
Disgusting, if you ask me. Worse, I can’t eject from my brain (although I’m trying) the idea that something this horrific happened to Ashley.
Maybe Burke is right to keep the file away from me.
No. Not for a second. I will wrench that file from him tomorrow, even if it takes a brawl.
I talked with Hollie’s parents, a nice suburban couple who deserved better for their youngest daughter. I left my card and asked them to call me if she woke up, then landed back at the precinct and spent the rest of the day cramming for my big show.
Burke loaned me his jacket and I realized I needed to hit the weights a little more. But I put on my game face — the one that has walked into hundreds of gruesome murder scenes, the one that has delivered brutal news to parents — and held a short but succinct briefing in the press room at the precinct, the sun hot on the windows. No details, just the update from the doctors on Hollie and our investigation. Which sadly is nothing, and I again asked people to be careful.
I haven’t mentioned the profiles—young, blonde teens and twenty-somethings, most of them waitresses, bartenders, and working girls. And never would I leak the tidbit about the twenty dollar tips. But I advise all young women to stay in the daylight, walk with friends and make wise choices.
It sounds like something I’d say to Ashley when she became a teenager. Becomes. Becomes a teenager.
Apparently, I wasn’t a complete train wreck because Burke gave me a nod. I didn’t take any questions, but Eve fielded a few about the facts we could release about Hollie. Where she was found, and when. Her condition.
When I stepped back and let Eve take the podium, my heart nearly imploded in my chest.
Her fragrance hit me, and I realized that in my universe, the one I’m desperately missing, tonight we’d be barbecuing burgers and sharing a cold beer under the stars, waiting for Ashley to go to sleep.
And then…
I focused on a spot on the back of her head and tried not to think anymore.
But she looked good. Wore the same outfit as when she met me at the door this morning—dress pants, a crisp white shirt. Her curly auburn hair is tied back, and she has donned a suit jacket, every inch the award-winning forensic scientist.
I also know the other Eve. The one who kicks off her heels when she gets into my car, pulls the band from her hair and unbuttons that shirt low enough for me to remind myself to keep my eyes on the road. I could nearly hear her laughter, soft, light and uncoiling the stress of my day—which, until recently consisted of staring at a blank page in my office, searching for words.
My nose-diving writing career is the very last thing I care about right now.
So, no, not much success in turning my thoughts blank.
When she finished, Eve met my eyes with a tight-lipped half-smile of approval.
I’m like a puppy to her smile, and it took everything inside me not to rush up to her. I feel noosed by the accusations she—and Burke—have thrown at me. I don’t know what I did, but I am sure it merits her anger. After all, I know myself. Had a front row seat of the man I was before she married me.
Like I said, I’m surprised she stayed with me this long.
It doesn’t make my sucking chest wound bleed less.
She left without a word to me, despite the smile, and frankly it didn’t bode well for tonight’s party.
“I told you she doesn’t want me there,” I said this to Burke two hours later as we sparred in one of the two rings at Quincy’s.
The old warehouse-turned-gym is located in the heart of Minneapolis and made for guys like me who need loud music and sweat at the end of a day.
Def Leopard had my number as Foolin’ blared from the overhead speakers, bouncing against the metal beams and exposed piping as we circled each other.
Burke’s mitt grazed my chin, but I jerked back before it could connect, then closed in for a jab to his mid-section. Connected.
I didn’t know why his grunt felt so good, but I followed with another and he caught me and shoved me away. He was breathing hard, a sweat turning his bowling ball head shiny. “What did you want her to do? She just delivered you divorce papers.” He bounced away from me.
