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“Close enough the sister was her maid-of-honor while her best friend happily played second fiddle.”
“Talk to the sister, see what she has to say about Henry. She’ll be quick to tell you if she hated his guts.”
“Which would tell me what?” Humored, I wait for her to peek back at me. “Lots of people don’t like their in-laws. Doesn’t make them killers.”
“Maybe. But it’s worth getting her opinion. That’ll give you an idea of which direction you should take this. And just for the record, I don’t like my new in-laws.”
“And that haswhat,” I narrow my eyes, “to do with this case?”
“Nothing. I merely wanted my opinion known. Your family sucks. Felix is the reason you got shot. He’s the reason Mia can’t sleep alone anymore, and he’s the reason Aubree and Tim willneverbe a couple.”
Stopping, she flashes a sarcastic grin. “He sucks, and he’s not invited to Thanksgiving. Ever. But you’d like my parents. They were pretty cool, in thatthey left me alone and didn’t make me talk to people unnecessarilykind of way.”
“You celebrate the fact they worked twenty hours a day, which helped you maintain your antisocial ways.” I roll my eyes and look to the computer screen. “Can we get back on topic?”
“Sure. Figure out if Holly was a victim of a tragic accident, suicide, or a hidden homicide. I’m not digging her up and disturbing a woman’s body if there’s no sign of foul play. She deserves to rest. Go do the job you’re so eager to get back to, and if you bring me proof she needs to be brought up, I’ll be there with my shovel and hard hat.”
“A shovel?” I laugh. “Really?”
“No, they use machinery for that. But still.” She snickers. “If this all proves to be sketchy, then get permission to bring her up, and I’ll be there to get your answers. The body will tell you everything you need to know, so long as you stop and listen.”
“Wow.” At a knock at the door, I glance across the apartment and search for a little strength to get up and answer it. I find none, and so I bring my attention back to my wife. “That was super philosophical of you, Doc. Do the bones actually talk? Like,” I raise my hand and shape it to mimic a puppet. “Hello, Minka Mayet. I’m dead, but I consumed a lot of calcium in my youth. Let’s chat.”
“There’s something genuinely wrong with you.” Shoving the laptop aside, she uses my thighs to push up off the couch, then she sashays across the room in booty shorts that show off entirely too much ass cheek.
If I wasn’t as tired as I am, I might consider getting up and tackling the deliciously sinful woman, robbing our visitor of a view he’ll secret away for the rest of his life. But Iamtired, and she’s always going on about how I don’t get to control her body andblah blah blah.
Tugging her hoodie down, she studies her bare legs for a moment and comes to stop in front of the door, then she takes a breath and nods, as though to pep herself up for anotherunnecessaryinteraction with a human she doesn’t know or like.
Pulling the door wide, she smiles for the teenaged delivery driver, whose eyes instantly drop to her legs, then she moves in and takes—not accepts, buttakes—our dinner. With a wave and a fake smile, she shuts the door again and turns back to me like a victor in a fight.
See what I did there? I won, and I’m awesome.
“That was exhausting.” She heads back my way, detouring to her kitchen to grab a roll of paper towels, then she comes to the back of the couch and slumps over it until she lands in an undignified lump. “Dinner’s ready, darling. Now let’s discuss dead people.”
“Mm… Talk dirty to me, babe.”
* * *
“First stop.”
The next morning, with my shoulder on fire and my stomach churning because the pain flirts with unbearable, I move up the steps of a fancy brownstone in the money side of Copeland City. Not theoldmoney, since old money here actually belonged to the mafia. But the kind of money achievable by folks in their twenties and thirties in this era of technology andinfluencers.
Two stories high, with massive picture windows on the street level, and established gardens out front, tended to even in the winter.
The cold breeze both makes my arm ache, and helps me not puke from the pain.
It’s a win, I suppose, and a hell of a lot better than being stoned and telling my best friend my wife is a wanted killer.
“Henry Alexander Wade,” Fletch murmurs as footsteps move through the house in front of us. “He’s sixty-five years old now. He was twenty-nine when he married Holly. Thirty when he married the new wife. Thirty-one when their first kid was born, then each one after that arrived almost exactly two years apart. Banker. He invested a little money over the years—nothing outrageous, and never in high-risk stocks. He owns a late model SUV, keeps a boat at the bay marina, and he and the second wife travel once a year to somewhere new.”
“Luxurious life,” I muse. “I didn’t know bankers made that much money.”
He shrugs. “Thirty or forty years in the same job, probably gets bonuses. Frugal life. Now he and the wife are enjoying retirement.”
Bringing his hand up, Fletch knocks loud enough to alert the occupants inside. Dropping it once more, we step back and wait as the sound of footsteps inside grows louder. The scratch of a dog sprinting on hardwood floors. Running feet that make me think of kids. The heavierthud, thud, thudof an overweight man in loafers.
It takes almost an entire minute before a shadow falls across the peephole, then a moment after that, the locks disengage and the solid wooden door creaks open. My eyes drop to a child who stands in the small gap between the door and the frame, then behind her, the heavy-footed man.
