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“A concerned older brother,” he corrects with a laugh. “Whose sister idolizes her new boss and considers her a best friend.” He looks down at my hand and raises a perfectly sculpted brow. “You’re married to that hottie cop, but you don’t wear his ring?”
“Actually… uh,” I slide my hands behind my back and clasp my fingers together. “That’s kinda why I’m here. I wanted to talk to you about something a little special I could wearinsteadof a ring.”
“Wait!” Spinning on her heels, Aubree glowers. “I thought we were here for best friend chains.”
“We can do both,” I concede with a small grin. “I wasn’t intending to put anything else on my ankle.”
“Oh, great.” Clapping her hands, Aubree darts over to one of a dozen display cabinets across the glittering store. “You do you over there. Don’t come here yet, because I want what I choose to be a surprise.”
Bringing his gaze back to me, Elijah’s eyes dance with mirth. “It’s gonna be a fun surprise. Now talk to me about what you want, Dr. Mayet. Let big brother Eli make it happen for you.”
ARCHER
“We have fuck-all to go on.”
I walk our war room and pass each player we’ve placed on the wall, starting with a picture of a twenty-three-year-old Holly, and right beside her, Henry Wade.
Hillary DuPree, who is now Hillary Wade.
Lacey Trainor.
Doctor Chant, since she’s part of all this.
And former Detectives Thomas and Kavanagh, who are both now deceased.
“We have two disgraced cops and a lazy medical examiner who all caught this one case. They either didn’t do the job because they had motive to skew the results, or they were simply stupid and didn’t care what happened to Holly.”
“We have a pregnant woman who was supposedly mentally unwell,” Fletch adds. “Whether her diagnosis was accurate or not, the medical records say she suffered mental health issues. Upon her death, toxicology reports state she was low on her medication, whichcouldhave led to a manic episode.”
“We have a best friend and a sister, two women on either side of our vic. Both claim extreme closeness to Holly. Both are giving us different stories.”
“Hillary says Holly was unwell. She also dearly misses her best friend. Additionally, she attended psych appointments with Holly in ‘86 and supported her through diagnosis and treatment.”
“And Lacey says diagnosis was bogus,” I add. “She says her sister was completely fine prior to all of this and should never have been medicated. She blames Hillary and Henry for supporting the mental health narrative.”
“Line it up,” Fletch commands. “Lacey says it wasn’t suicide. Our newest M.E. finds that to be the truth. Hillary errs on the side of mental instability and forced medication. Chant agrees with Doctor Brown’s findings and ruled as such.”
“Which is now proven wrong,” I conclude. “When we draw a line in the sand and place our players: Hillary, Henry, Chant, Brown, Thomas, and Kavanagh are all on the wrong side. Lacey Trainor has consistently been the only one to offer an alternative version of events. Until tonight, her version could not be substantiated.”
“So does that make Henry and Hillary guilty,” Fletch asks, “or merely the recipients of bad information?”
“We’re told to trust our doctors,” I murmur. “To take their word and pray they have our best interests at heart. So if the husband and best friend are told by all the professionals that Holly was having issues, then sure, they’re gonna take that and consider it fact. It would be reason enough for Henry to support the medication, even if it dulled the woman he loved. And it makes Hillary a good friend for escorting Holly to those psych appointments.”
“The only player we haven’t spoken to yet is Doctor Brown.” Fletch slaps a final image on our war room wall. “We’ve been unable to locate him, but he might be the only person alive today who holds all the answers.”
“Often, if a man doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be—especially after thirty years have passed. But now we have a confirmed homicide. That opens doors for us. Doors we can step through just as soon as Mistleforth is awake in the morning.”
Leaning against the table in the center of the room, Fletch chuckles. “Seeing as how this case is cold and no one else appears to be at risk, Mistleforth might rip our nuts off if we try to call tonight.”
“So let’s pack it in.”
Checking the time on my phone, I catch sight of Minka’s name and the text on my screen.
She’s done at the George Stanley. She’s going home. Penguins. Rocks. Apartments.
I check the hour and note she sent her message a little less than an hour ago. Which means she’s likely already home and waiting for me.
“I’m going to bed.” Instead of replying to her text, I push my chair under the table and grab my coat. “I’m going to my wife and catching six hours down, then we’ll come back and finish this in the morning.”
