Embrace Me Forever (Hartley Brothers #3)

38. Blake

38

BLAKE

England certainly lives up to its gray and gloomy reputation. When we arrive in Oxfordshire, where the forensic unit of Thames Valley Police is based, the rain doesn’t just fall. It charges down in relentless torrents.

I hold Georgia-May close as we share an umbrella. In the lobby, we’re greeted by Detective Harris, a stern woman with a hawk-like gaze that seems to see straight through you. Her handshake is as firm as her no-nonsense demeanor, and with a brief gesture, she directs us toward a conference room.

After a quick exchange of pleasantries, we cut straight to the reason for our visit. She slides a few photos across the table. They show a quaint cottage surrounded by sprawling fields captured from various angles.

Georgia-May leans in, her fingers lightly tracing the edges of the photos. “Yes, that’s the cottage where I last saw Sebastian alive,” she murmurs.

Detective Harris singles out an aerial shot of the area. “We found the grave about two hundred meters north of that cottage, right here.” She pulls out a detailed map, pointing to a marked spot off a winding trail through the fields. The map clearly shows the topography and the remote location of the grave.

“How did you find it?” Georgia-May asks, leaning over the map to get a better look.

“A hiker and his dog stumbled upon it. Quite accidental,” Harris explains. “Given the remote location, it’s unlikely it would have been discovered otherwise. The grave was shallow, the earth disturbed. Our forensics team was brought in immediately.”

Georgia-May looks back at the photo, her eyes tracing the landscape.

Detective Harris takes a deep breath, then says, “You mentioned in our previous correspondence that you wished to view Mr. Langford’s remains. I’ve coordinated with the coroner to facilitate this. However?—”

“Is there any problem?” Georgia-May quivers.

“Ms. Williams, I must strongly advise against proceeding, considering the conditions. It has been over two years. We’ve meticulously reconstructed the remains and captured detailed photographs. They offer almost as comprehensive a view as an in-person examination.”

“I understand, Detective, but I’m his only family,” she insists, composure in her tone.

“It can be quite distressing, Ms. Williams. May I also remind you that we have yet to identify a DNA match. There is still a chance that these are not the remains of Mr. Langford.”

“I want to see him,” she insists.

Detective Harris turns to me as if I hold the deciding vote.

“I’ll be there with her, Detective. She’ll be fine,” I assure her, my hand intertwined with Georgia-May’s.

The detective stands up. “Very well. Come with me.”

We follow Harris’ car to the local hospital. She leads us through the corridors, and I keep a firm grip on Georgia-May’s hand the entire way. The sight of the mortuary sign sends chills down my spine, and I can only imagine how Georgia-May must be feeling.

We pause outside the mortuary doors. Harris stops, her expression somber. “I need to prepare you,” she begins, her voice low and measured. “The procedure inside is clinical, but we strive to handle everything with the utmost respect and care. Dr. Reynolds, our coroner, will guide you through.”

Dr. Reynolds is a middle-aged man with compassionate eyes. “Please, come in,” he greets, leading us to a small viewing area separated by glass from the main examination room.

Georgia-May grips my arm, her face a mask of composure. I squeeze her hand reassuringly as we approach the glass. Detective Harris stays behind us.

Dr. Reynolds speaks from the other side, his voice clear through the intercom. “We have taken every precaution to respect the remains.” With a press of a button, a section of the curtain slides back to reveal a form on the examination table, covered by a white sheet.

Dr. Reynolds continues, “When you’re ready, I will remove the sheet for you to view the remains.”

After a pause, Georgia-May gives a signal. The coroner carefully draws back the cover.

The skeletal remains, though handled with care, outline the reality of the situation. Georgia-May’s breath hitches, but she remains silent. There is a clear bullet wound on the skull, just above his mouth.

“We’ve reconstructed as best we can,” Dr. Reynolds explains.

Georgia-May leans forward slightly, her eyes searching for something only she might recognize. A confirmation of a dreaded truth.

Dr. Reynolds waits patiently, his demeanor understanding but professional. “Do you recognize the clothing?” he asks with measured intent.

Georgia-May quivers slightly, “Yes. That was what he was wearing that night,” she confirms, her gaze fixed on Sebastian’s skull.

“The gender and estimated age of the remains align with Sebastian Langford,” Dr. Reynolds continues, adjusting his glasses as he reviews his notes. “However, the DNA did not match any records in our database. Is there anything specific you can tell me about Mr. Langford that might assist in further identification?”

I sense there’s an unspoken question hanging in the air, a hint of doubt perhaps suggesting the remains might have been tampered with, a body swapped and dressed to deceive.

“His pacemaker,” Georgia-May says.

The coroner nods slowly. “Yes. We found a pacemaker inside.”

At this confirmation, Georgia-May’s composure breaks. Tears stream down her cheeks as she turns slightly away from the window. Her past with Sebastian, a blend of joy and sorrow, seems to crash over her all at once.

I place my arm around her shoulders. She leans into me, her body shaking with sobs. Her tears are for a past love lost too soon, a chapter of her life marked by both tenderness and pain. Yes, she loved him, but it’s me she’s holding on to now. And that’s an honor.

Dr. Reynolds covers the remains once more. He says solemnly, “We will give you a few moments.”

As she allows her tears to fall, I stand resolute beside her. It’s enough for now, enough that she knows she doesn’t have to face this alone.

“I’m sorry, baby,” I murmur close to her ear. These words, often withheld due to my own struggles, come easily today, imbued with the sincerity of the moment.

She lifts her head, her eyes meeting mine, a soft glow of appreciation in them despite the tears. “I’m okay,” she says, her voice sweet, touched by a tinge of relief. As I wipe away her tears, I see it. The genuine release in her expression, a burden lifted.

We complete the necessary paperwork, acutely aware that we must still wait for the remaining processes to conclude. But right now, my priority is Georgia-May. Her decision to view Sebastian’s remains may have more repercussions than we anticipated, but I’m going to be there for her no matter what.

The rain has eased into a drizzle, misting the air with a cool freshness. I open the passenger door of our rental car, shielding her as best I can from the residual droplets. She slips into the seat with a quiet thanks, and I can’t help but notice how the day’s toll has etched itself into the lines of her face. I shut her door with care and sprint to the driver’s side, the damp pavement slick under my shoes.

She’s silent as I start the engine, the sound of the ignition cutting through the rain’s soft patter.

Then she asks, “Can you drive me somewhere?”

“Of course.”

She directs me with small instructions. “Left here,” “Straight ahead,” “Slow down as you turn.” We are already deep in the rural landscapes of Oxfordshire, and her directions lead us further into a park nestled in the ancient woodland characteristic of the region. Towering beech trees and dense thickets of hawthorn surround us. The recent rains have left the undergrowth lush and verdant, the air filled with the scent of damp moss and the rich, earthy aroma of decaying leaves.

“I know the ground is sodden,” she says, her eyes scanning the path ahead. “But would you walk with me?”

“Only if the ducks promise not to laugh at my muddy shoes,” I quip, which earns me a hearty chuckle from her.

We walk on, following a trail that jags through the beautiful woodlands, the rich scent of rain-soaked earth filling our senses. Overhead, the canopy of ancient beech trees provides a natural shelter, their leaves whispering. The trail is lined with the vibrant greens of ferns and the occasional splash of color from wildflowers resilient enough to bloom in the damp coolness.

I grasp her, halting our progress. In the silent expanse of the forest, the hush grants me the chance to speak.

“Are you really okay?” I ask, searching her face for any sign of the strain she must be feeling.

“Yes,” she assures me.

Georgia-May shines in her steadiness. Her mental fortitude far surpasses my own. I shouldn’t doubt her. She is really okay.

We continue walking in companionable silence, the only sound the squelch of our boots on the moist earth and the distant calls of birds. The trail curves, and soon we arrive at a reservoir, its surface a mirror reflecting the gray sky above. A group of wild ducks paddles near the water’s edge, undisturbed by our presence.

“We should take Coco here later,” she suggests.

“Great idea!” I reply, taking her hand as we amble along, the foliage casting dappled shadows on our path.

“About Sebastian’s ring,” Georgia-May begins again, her voice soft with hesitation. “I’m thinking maybe I should—how do I put this—lay it to rest with him?”

I sense the turmoil behind her words. That ring is more than just metal and stone; it holds what she once held dear. Burying it with Sebastian will tear her apart, even if she won’t admit it. “Have you thought about passing it on to Coco instead?” I suggest with care.

Her expression brightens immediately. “You mean it?”

“Yes,” I assure her. “We’ll honor Sebastian with a proper burial. And when the time feels right, Coco should learn about his legacy.”

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re second best,” she whispers.

“That won’t happen. I am Coco’s father, and a ring won’t change that,” I say with conviction. “Nothing can alter that fact, not even biology. Only you have that power.”

“And why would I want to change that?”

I study her expression, noting every crease around her eyes and every curve of her lips, and I didn’t find any reason. Her smile then blossoms as she leans in, sealing her words with a kiss that feels like both a promise and a liberation.

“I’ve found the peace I needed,” she affirms as we continue our trek.

“So, no need for a visit to Belmarsh Prison then?” I jest.

She laughs, her eyes sparkling. “Bertram doesn’t deserve a nanosecond of our time!” she declares. “Although I’d love to tell him that none of what he’s experiencing now ever showed up in my algorithm.”

“Because you didn’t account for us in your variables,” I murmur, my thumb tracing her chin.

“True. I guess that’s what happens when you hack someone’s life,” she says, her eyes daring me to disagree.