Chapter Thirty-One
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The contractions are worse. So much worse, and I fall behind to hide them now that we’re off the ice and I don’t need to lead. As I start to lag, I tell Anders to go on ahead.
“Like hell,” he says.
“The town is right there.” I point.
He shakes his head and slows his pace.
“Will,” I say, with a bit of a snap. “Yolanda needs medical attention. I’m going as fast as I can, and I’d really like to slow down.” I pause. “I think I’m having contractions.”
He turns sharply enough to make Yolanda hold tighter. “What?”
“Early contractions,” I say firmly. “But I’d like to go a little slower. Can you get Yolanda to town and send someone back for me? I’ll keep moving. I just need to slow down.”
“I’m fine,” Yolanda croaks. “We’ll go as slow as you need, Casey.”
I bite back my frustration. The contractions are coming stronger and lasting longer, and I want to just stop walking and rest. Give me five minutes, and I’ll be fine. But I can’t do that because Yolanda needs to get to April now.
Anders has me go in front so he can match my pace. Which means I need to keep moving even when a contraction has my legs wobbling—
“Who’s there?” Anders says.
I stop fast. Someone’s to our left, sitting or crouching by the lake.
“Just me,” a voice says. “Move along.”
“Grant?” I say.
A grumbling sigh, and Grant stands. Then he squints over at us.
“Is that Yolanda?” Grant says. “Where are her boots?”
Not the first question I’d ask seeing Anders carrying Yolanda, but yes, I guess bare feet in winter is odd. I back up to tuck her feet into the scarf we’d wrapped around them.
“She’s hurt,” I say. “Will needs to take her to town, and I can’t keep up. Would you escort me, please?”
Anders starts to protest. Then he stops and looks at me and murmurs, “Right. Not a suspect.”
Yep, since we know who killed Lynn, Grant is off the suspect list. Leaving me with him for the short walk to town is fine.
“Go,” I say. “Please.”
“Grant?” Anders says.
He’s still staring at Yolanda. “Is she okay?”
“I’m fine,” Yolanda croaks again. “Casey is having contractions.”
“Shit.” Grant stares at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. “The baby’s coming?”
“Eventually,” I say. “Right now, I’m having early contractions and can’t keep up. Would you please escort me to town?”
He nods and turns to Anders. “You go on.” He pauses, peering at Yolanda. “Wait. If she’s not wearing anything on her feet, does that mean the same guy—”
“Will really needs to move,” I say. Then to Anders, “I’ve got this.”
“Twenty minutes,” Anders says. “I’m taking Yolanda to April, and if I don’t see you within twenty minutes, I’m heading back.”
I wave a hand. “I’ll be there. Just let me rest for a few seconds.”
“A few. ”
I shake my head, and Anders leaves with Yolanda. Then I turn to Grant.
“Yes, she was attacked. Eric and his brother are tracking the suspect now.”
His gaze sharpens. “Who is it?”
“I’m not authorized to say, but you’ll be the first to know.”
“So it wasn’t me?” he says as his jaw sets. “You blamed me—”
“You were a suspect.” I give a grunt as I find a boulder and rest against it. “The victim’s current or former partner is always a suspect. You know why? Because half the time women are murdered, that’s who did it. If you want an apology, you aren’t getting one. We had to consider you, but obviously, we were also considering other suspects, since you aren’t the one we came back to arrest.”
“What are you doing?”
I think he means why am I not with Dalton, then I see he’s frowning at me. I have one knee up against the boulder and I’m leaning into the stretch as a contraction builds.
“It helps, okay?” I say. “At this point, please don’t question the pregnant lady. She’s in a hell of a lot of pain and needs two minutes to rest before she gets her ass to the clinic.”
I stretch, and my body whispers that it would like to stay here. Just lean into this rock. Lean a little more, squat down—
I quickly straighten. Okay, I really need to get to the clinic.
“Let’s—” I begin.
“I loved her,” he says. “I know it didn’t look like it, but we were going through a rough patch. If I didn’t love her, I wouldn’t have come here. I wouldn’t have admitted I screwed around and expected her to get her revenge and been okay with that. I wanted to fix things, whatever it took.”
I nod and summon all the sympathy I can muster with this pain arcing through me. “I know. I’m sorry. I really am.” I look toward town. “We should get moving.”
“You don’t need me to carry you, right?”
I could almost laugh at his expression. “No, I’m fine. Walking it out feels good.”
I start down the path, only to hear him behind me, still standing in place.
“It happened out here, didn’t it?” he says.
I want to just keep walking, but I can’t do that to him. So I glance back and nod. Then I continue on.
“Where exactly?” he says.
When I don’t answer—because I’m breathing through a contraction—he says, “I have a right to know.” A two-second pause, and his voice drops. “I didn’t mean it like that. I want to know. Maybe it would help.”
I nod, focused on breathing in and out. I can see the town buildings through the trees.
“Is it near here?” he says. “Can you show me? Quickly?”
I slow. With the contraction ebbing, I want to snap that I’m having a baby—literally, right now—and this really isn’t the time. I don’t say that, not because it wouldn’t be fair to Grant, but because the hairs on my neck are rising.
I turn slowly.
Grant’s peering out at the lake. “Over there, right? Not far. I heard it wasn’t far. Can you just show me? Quickly?”
Can I take him farther from town? Out toward the lake? Past the trees? Where no one can see us?
Anders and I thought it was safe leaving me with Grant because he wasn’t the killer. Are we sure of that? Absolutely sure?
Jerome must have murdered Lynn. Anything else would be too great a coincidence, especially given what just happened to Yolanda.
But what if Jerome wasn’t acting alone?
My hand slides down toward the talisman of my gun, just a touch to remind me I have it.
Except I don’t have it.
I gave my gun to Jacob.
“Casey?” Grant says, frowning.
He never calls me by my name. It’s always “Detective Butler,” often with a twist of derision.
Grant rubs his face. “You need to get to town. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m not…” He swallows. “I’m sorry.”
I search his face. It’s haggard, eyes dark with exhaustion. Grant didn’t help Jerome murder his wife. He’s tired and grieving, and he wants to see the spot where his wife died. That’s common. Not necessarily a good idea, but when people are groping for closure, they grasp at everything.
See where their loved one died. See the body. Visit the killer in prison. Sit in court through gruesome testimony.
All the things they hope will help.
“If you want to see the spot tomorrow, someone will take you,” I say. “Give it more thought first. But we’ll do what you want.”
He dips his chin, gaze downcast. “Thank you.”
We resume walking. I’d like to ask him to get in front of me, but I can’t do that without coming up with a logical explanation for an illogical request, and my brain isn’t capable of handling that right now. So I listen to his footfalls. They’re hard to pick up—we’re heading through the trees now, with very light snow cover.
My stressed brain is trying to figure out a solution when he provides one by talking, and I can hear he’s at least five paces behind. Lagging, not wanting to take me to town, wanting to go back to the lake.
“Was it Thierry?” he says.
I give a quick “No,” mostly because we can’t have him going after Thierry while we deal with Jerome.
“The kid? Sebastian?”
“No,” I say. “It wasn’t any of the initial suspects, and I need you to stop asking, Grant. You’ll know as soon as Eric brings him back to town.”
“A guy then. That’s what I figured. It had to be a guy to overpower her. She was stronger than she looked. She took Pilates and did some weight training and…” His voice drops. “She stopped doing the weights because I was always making jokes about how light they were. I don’t think she took it as teasing.”
No woman takes that as teasing. But I only keep walking, focused on his voice, which has dropped a little farther back as he dawdles.
“I think that’s why she did the Pilates,” he says. “And some yoga. Because she knew I wouldn’t come along, so she could do it in peace. Without me teasing her or getting cranky because other guys were checking her out.”
I can see a storage building just ahead, through the trees.
He continues, “I was an asshole. I don’t know why she put up with me.”
“She loved you.”
A pause. “She did, didn’t she?” Another pause. “Can I ask for something else, Casey?”
“Hmm?”
“Five minutes. When you bring the guy back, just give me five minutes alone with him.”
I exhale and slow. Words are on my lips. You don’t really want that. I can’t do that. With a shake of my head, though, I decide to say nothing. Leave this fight to others. I have a baby who really wants to meet the world. Now.
Grant makes a low choking sound, a stifled sob. I slow some more but don’t turn. I’ll let him cry in peace, which is half consideration and half that I really don’t have time to comfort him. Again, someone else will need to do that.
A soft thud behind me, and I wheel, as if he’d used the distraction of a sob to catch me off guard and lunge. But he’s on his knees, hands to his face, making ugly, half-stifled crying sounds.
Or that’s what I see at first, exhaling in the relief of not being attacked. Then the image reprocesses. He’s on his knees, yes, but his hands are at his neck. Those sounds are half-strangled gasps as his eyes round… and blood seeps through his fingers.