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“There will be other flights,” he murmurs against her skin. “I’ll make sure of it.”
She doesn’t argue because she understands. This is the way things are supposed to go. This is the way he sees it playing out in his mind. This is the way he’s always envisioned it. This version is his fantasy, and some fantasies you don’t disrupt. It’s an invisible but important line, one she’s learned needs careful towing.
He gently sucks at her neck, tracing an imaginary line down to the rounded curves of her breasts. He lingers. She breathes in the sandalwood scent of him as he relaxes into her.
“It’s not fair that a woman should be this perfect.” He glances up, his eyes meeting hers. He’s confident, but like all men, he craves reassurance.
She could argue, as most women would. She could laugh him off, or find a reason to disparage herself, but she knows better. That’s not her style. “So they say.”
He laughs because it isn’t a lie. It’s obvious in the way other women look at her. Their expressions thinly veiled, it’s easy to see what they are thinking. They’re thinking it isn’t fair. A woman with a small waist and large breasts has obviously had work done or starved herself. She hasn’t and she doesn’t. That’s what she finds funny. Most women want to be thin. Most people want to be rich—talented, whatever—and yet, most people disparage those things when they see them.
Playfully, she pushes him back onto the bed. With his tanned skin and chiseled body, he could easily grace fitness magazine covers. He’s not perfect, but he’s pretty close. She reaches for the drawer beside the bed. It sticks, although with a bit of force, she slides it out. Shuffling blindly, she comes up with what she went in for. She holds the handcuffs in the air like an unspoken question, dangling them at eye level. “My turn.”
“God,” he sighs as she slips them around his wrists. “You never cease to—” She places her finger against his lips to silence him. He nips at it. “I love you, Sarah. I love you so much.”
With a nod, she starts to offer a response, but can’t decide where to start. It certainly isn’t with the fact that her name isn’t really Sarah.
Chapter Two
Ethan
Austin
Achill settles over me as I scan the photographs for the umpteenth time. Looking for what, I don’t know. Something I missed the first time? As many times as I’ve been over these images, I’ve yet to find anything inconsistent or out of the ordinary. Not that there is anything ordinary about looking at crime scene photos, but that’s not the point.
The first photo is reminiscent of a sixteenth century painting. It shows a naked man in a seated position, one end of a rope looped around his neck, the other end fastened to a doorframe. His head hangs down and he’s devoid of color, but otherwise he could just as easily have dozed off. Depending on one’s definition of foul play, it doesn’t give me much to go on. It’s not a bad way to go out, if you ask me. I’ve seen worse.
A suicide according to the medical examiner’s report, but my client refuses to believe that. There’s an insurance payout for murder, and she’s convinced her father’s death was not intentional. Or more specifically, she said that it was no coincidence.
The second and third photos are pretty much the same, except they feature different men. Both men have slit wrists. The ME’s report said they both had toxic amounts of cocaine in their systems, and neither left a suicide note.
The fourth image is the outlier. The only one technically classified as a murder. A naked male facedown on a bed, with a bullet wound in the back of his head. Simple. One and done.
There is nothing obvious connecting the four men, except they all had profiles on the same dating app. A connection it took an obscene amount of time to make. But then, that is what my client is paying me for. Although, after staring at images of naked men for hours on end, images I am not supposed to have and obtained using questionable methods, even though the fee my client is paying is substantial, it hardly feels like enough.
The familiar pang of acid building in my chest sets in. I reach into my desk and find only an empty bottle of antacids. I take this as a sign to set the pictures aside and call it a day. I’m interested, but not to the point of making any real headway. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s the heartburn. But whatever it is, it has me on edge. It’s not just that I want to solve the case. That Ineedto solve the case. It’s that other thing. Probably.
I take a few deep breaths in and hold them before slowly exhaling. I’ve been told this method is supposed to ease tension, but I have yet to feel it work. At any rate, my inability to focus isn’t the end of the world. It’s more likely the lack of sleep. Induced partially by the heartburn. A vicious cycle.
I know answers will come. Just not this minute.
Swiveling in my chair, I turn toward the window. Steady rain pelts the glass. Above, the sky hangs low with heavy gray clouds. Like most things, it won’t last. The clouds will break within the hour, giving way to clear skies and bright sunshine, which reminds me I’ve always hated spring, so full of promise, most of them empty. Best-case scenario, it passes quick, and we break through to the dead heat of summer, to endless days and stifling heat. Otherwise, I might be tempted to crack the window and fling myself out. Not a bad way to go out either.
Below, the street is teeming with activity. Shrill horns and cars occupied by faceless people, commuters traveling back and forth on unchanging routes. I don’t know how many minutes pass. I only know that I should be searching for a killer. Instead, the thought that ratchets back and forth in my mind is not how people have the strength to go on living this way, but how they have the strength to die here.
My assistant, Nadia, flings the door open, startling me. She slams a stack of papers down on my desk with a look of concern I know isn’t real. “The info you requested.”
I glance at the printed pages, which are not what I was expecting. I’d asked for this information three days ago and had since forgotten about it.
“I don’t envy you,” she says, her foot tapping to the beat of the rain outside. I wonder if she notices, but I doubt it. Nadia has a special brand of nervous energy she carries with her everywhere she goes, always has. Self-awareness is not her strong suit. She shakes her head. “Birthday parties aren’t cheap.”
“The price is the least of my concerns,” I say, although that isn’t entirely true. “It’s screaming six-year-olds and their parents I could do without.”
“Divorce sucks,” she tells me. I’ve always liked that about her. Whatever’s in that head of hers just comes tumbling right out of her mouth. It’s refreshing, the clear-cut honesty.
“You know what sucks worse?”
“What?”
