10. Kendrick
Chapter ten
Kendrick
Spencer’s been weird all fucking day.
Hell, he’s been weird for months. But the last few days really take the cake. The kiss yesterday was my fault, I can acknowledge that. The rest of it? That’s squarely on Spencer’s shoulders. I still have no idea where the question about sex came from. He didn’t bring it up again after we went home. Why did he ask me that? I’ve wanted him for years. From the moment I met him. Those eyes pulled me in, and I’ve been lost ever since.
He demands everything from me, and I always give it to him. I always will. But he’s never asked for this. I don’t think he even knows what he’s asking for.
And I definitely don’t think he really wants it. If there were going to be sexual attraction on his part, it would have happened already.
Right?
I glance across to where Spencer is driving, tapping his hands on the steering wheel and singing along to whatever’s on the radio. The words are wrong, he’s completely off-key, and if anyone could hear him, they’d think he was murdering something. It doesn’t stop me from wanting to kiss him until we’re both panting and needy.
Except he won’t be, will he? I’ll be hard and aching, and he’ll just be… I don’t know what. Satiated. Happy. That’s a good-enough reason for me to do it.
“You’re looking at me,” Spencer says, his singing cutting off abruptly. “I asked you before if there was jam on my face, and you said no.”
“Because there isn’t any jam on your face.” Not anymore; he’d cleaned it off after he’d eaten five pieces of toast in quick succession.
“Why are you looking at me, then?”
“You’re nice to look at.” It’s the truth. And has the added benefit of him turning to give me a small, shy smile. He looks almost doe-eyed with his big brown eyes and bright blond hair.
“Yeah?”
“Are you fishing for compliments?”
“Are you going to give them to me?”
Always. “Anything you want, but let’s try to get to our destination in one piece. In order to do that, you need to keep your eyes on the road.”
He winks at me. “So what do you think about this neighbour? NDA enough to get her to shut her mouth or…?”
“I haven’t met her. Are you suggesting we murder her?”
“I didn’t say that, but if it happens to be our only option, I’m just saying we shouldn’t discount it.”
“Right.”
He twists his palms around the steering wheel. “She doesn’t seem sus to you? If someone got murdered in the house next to mine, I’d find somewhere else to stay for a couple nights. Wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t think we’re the right target audience for that question.” If someone comes into either of our apartments with the intent to hurt Spencer, they’ll end up dead or in cuffs. I know which option I’d be going with. I’ll bury them so fucking deep that no one will ever remember they existed in the first place.
“Hypothetically, if we weren’t us, and neither of us knew how to kill a person with tweezers and a block of cheese, what would you do? You’d get the fuck out of the neighbourhood, at least for a few days. It’s only smart.”
“A block of cheese? That was your first thought?”
He turns and gives me a grin that makes my knees a little weak. “I said tweezers first, but it’d be a cool story, right?”
“It would be a story.” I like to eat cheese, not… whatever would involve murder. Make them choke on it, maybe? “What’s your point?”
“I’m just saying that it’s weird she doesn’t seem too concerned about sleeping right next to a haunted house.”
Some people pay to stay in haunted houses, it’s not that weird. “How do you know it’s haunted?”
“Somebody got killed there, Ken. You think it’s not ?”
I’m not answering that. “Killers don’t always come back to the scene of their crime. The smart ones don’t.” Not generally. Though if they get a kick out of seeing their work, then they may. It’s a complicated grey area and a conversation I’m not getting into right now.
Veronica’s house looks the same as it did when we visited the night of her murder. Still no mail stuffed in the mailbox, but it may not mean anything. Not a lot of people get physical letters anymore, and there’s a sticker saying “no junk mail.”
“When were the family notified?” I ask, stepping out and closing the car door behind me before leaning against it, arms on the roof.
“Yesterday evening, I think? Riley held off as long as he could without making anyone suspicious. She’s an only child. They had to call her parents since they live in Perth. Bit over a four-hour flight away… they could be here already, potentially.”
If they boarded a flight quickly. If it was my child, I’d have caught the first one possible. “Let’s get this over with, then.” I don’t want our car here if they show up to go through her things. Regardless of the fact we aren’t out front of her place, the fewer visuals we give out the better. We should have parked a few blocks away, to be honest. But since we’re here to see Irene Abrams, specifically, doing that would be suspicious as well. Can’t win, either way. So it’s best we don’t linger.”
“It’s gonna be so cliché if the neighbour did it,” Spencer says with a little laugh as he strides with purpose toward the front door. The small hop he does up the three stairs is borderline psychotic.
“You’re way too happy about this,” I mutter, following him.
“It’s a classic Hansel-and-Gretel scenario.”
“Children leaving breadcrumbs on their way to a house made of candy?” I raise an eyebrow and deliberately do a sweep of the house. “This one’s brick, genius.”
“No, the creepy old lady fattening children up.”
“Was she fattening up Veronica? I don’t think I’d consider our victim a child.”
“She was once.” Spencer jabs the doorbell and lets out a put-upon sigh. “Stop ruining my analogy.”
“You didn’t need help with that.” It never worked in the first place.
The door opens before he can respond. Saved by the bell. Not to mention, all his theories—and mine—go right out the window. Irene would fall over from a stiff wind. I’d be surprised if she hit five feet, and her bony, angular arms couldn’t hold someone under water long enough to drown them. Not someone who, by all accounts, was fit and healthy. Whoever this lady is, she’s not our killer.
Spencer mumbles, “Damn,” under his breath.
He’s not wrong. Let’s hope this isn’t a colossal waste of our time.
“Can I help you?” she asks, hand wobbling on her walking stick.
“Excuse me, ma’am, my name is Detective Constable Alex Young, and this is my partner, Detective Constable Andrew Young.” We flip open our wallets to show our fake badges in our wallets and let her get a good look before putting them away. Not even a real cop would pick them up even if they were told they weren’t real. “Detective Senior Sergeant Riley Sinclair spoke to you a few days ago regarding Veronica Ferguson.”
She nods unsteadily and moves out of the way. “Yes, of course. Come in, come in. Let me put on a pot of tea.”
“I love tea,” Spencer says brightly.
I know for a fact that he despises tea. Has a lot of opinions about it and none of them are fit for polite company. What he’s hoping for is food with that tea. And to keep her relaxed, so that she’s more likely to respond positively to any questions we have.
Irene takes us into a living room that’s surprisingly modern, given the exterior of the home. Sleek furnishings and a large TV mounted above the mantelpiece.
“Take a seat and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be right back with your tea.”
“Let me help you.” Spencer beams at her, and her hesitation doesn’t last long. He’s impossible to resist. I know that better than anyone. “No” isn’t a word he’s overly familiar with. Helps get him into all sorts of places most people can’t gain access to. He’ll slip a blade between someone’s ribs before they’ve realised what even happened, too busy mesmerised by that winning smile.
I use the opportunity to check out the room in more detail. Pictures line the mantelpiece over the fake fireplace. Likely family: children, grandchildren. A faded wedding photo with a woman that bears a vague resemblance to the one whose ear Spencer is chatting off in the next room. His voice, loud and clear, carries through the quiet house. I bet it’s more noise than this place has been subject to in a long time.
The rest of the walls are bare, except for two lights behind the couch. Thick curtains are open, with sheer curtains covering the window for privacy. Or somewhere safe to peek out and watch the neighbourhood, with no one the wiser. Everyone needs a hobby, I don’t judge. Unless that hobby involves murder.
Finished with my disappointingly empty search, I make myself comfortable on the couch and wait. It’s softer than I personally like, my weight sinking in a little too far. Getting up’ll be fun. Once we’re done here, Spencer wants to stop at a nearby storage business to pick up boxes to pack up my apartment.
Spencer waltzes through the open archway with a wide smile, carrying two small saucers with mugs rattling on them. The pressure I didn’t even realise was building inside me just from being away from him for a few minutes eases the instant I see him. He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
He didn’t brush his hair today, so the blond strands flop haphazardly over his forehead, no rhyme or reason to their direction. He’s wearing a suit, which is a rarity for him. He’s only doing it to solidify our “detective” status. Wearing jeans and a T-shirt with random cartoon characters and popular cereals hardly says competent law enforcement. We can’t give her a reason to think we aren’t who we say we are. I can’t say I’m not enjoying the image he presents.
His tie is already shifted a little to the left, but the rest of his attire is impeccable. Perfectly pressed slacks—I know because it’s courtesy of me, not him—and the two middle buttons of his jacket are done up, stretched taut over his flat stomach. He looks edible.
The urge to peel every inch of the clothes off him until he’s fully bared for me is strong enough that I have to curl my hands over my knees to stop myself reaching for him.
“I snuck an extra sugar in for you,” he stage-whispers to me, handing me a mug.
“How generous of you.”
He smiles over the rim of his own mug and then takes a long drink of his. I’d kill to know what’s going through his mind right now. Impressive control, considering he’s not outwardly shuddering and gagging. He puts his drink down and gives another one of those brilliant smiles, showing off his dimple, to Irene. She visibly relaxes, returning it. The bee flying right into the flower’s net.
“How long have you lived here?” Spencer asks. “It’s a beautiful home.”
She startles, like she isn’t expecting the question. “Over forty years now. You should have seen it when we first moved in. My husband and I put a lot of work into it.” Her eyes gloss over a little, the way they do for everyone when speaking of a lost loved one.
“I’m sorry about your husband,” Spencer says, picking up on it as well.
“It’s been fifteen years now. But you aren’t here to talk about me, are you?”
“Afraid not.” Spencer takes another sip of his tea. I’m morbidly curious to know if he’ll finish the whole thing. I bet if she had a pot plant, he’d pour it out while she isn’t looking. He has no choice but to either let it go cold or drink it. Mine isn’t terrible, exactly. Knowing Spencer made it himself helps me get through it despite the light bitterness. Not black tea; it’s something else. Some kind of green tea hybrid?
“How long have you known Ms. Ferguson?” I ask, giving Spencer a momentary reprieve to deal with his tea issues without an active audience.
“About five years now. She moved in right in the middle of winter, the poor dear.”
“And is she a good neighbour?”
“Oh, she’s lovely. Mostly keeps to herself. No wild parties or thumping music. She pays for her gardener to mow my lawns too when he’s here.” She pauses. “Paid, I suppose.” She frowns at her own tea, curling her hands around it to stop the shaking.
“How did you find her?” Spencer spreads his knees, leaning his elbows on them. “You have a key to her home?”
Irene takes a moment to answer. “I water her plants and take care of her mail when she isn’t home.”
“Does she travel a lot?” I ask.
“Mostly when she visits her parents. But occasionally, she stays in the city when she has a big event for her fancy actor gig. She kept saying she wanted to get a dog, but she never got around to it.”
Spencer leans forward, face thoughtful. “Was she supposed to be away this weekend?”
“No, no. I’d baked a carrot cake and went over to give her some. I can never eat a whole cake by myself. Not anymore.”
Spencer’s mouth tips up. “I love carrot cake.” He’s not subtle at all about it. The nudge at the alibi is cleverly disguised by his love of sweets. He’ll get fed at the same time we confirm that her carrot cake story is legitimate.
“Would you like some?” she asks, eyes brightening. “I still have some left. Well… because—”
“He’d love some,” I interject. There’s something about her statement that bothers me, though I can’t quite put my finger on it.
It doesn’t take long for Spencer to settle back on the couch beside me with a plate of the cake. “Bit late for cake, wasn’t it?” he asks casually.
He’s right. We were called out early . Why was she bringing Veronica cake after midnight?
“I—” Irene hesitates. “I found her hours before that. I didn’t know what to do. I panicked. Waited too long to call the police.”
It’s not as unusual as it sounds. Responses to discovering bodies can vary wildly, and some of the decisions made aren’t always rational.
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary that night? An unexpected visitor, loud noises, any disturbances?”
“She always had people coming and going at weird hours of the night and day,” she says, a light wrinkle of disgust on her face. “But not that night.”
“You didn’t like that she entertained?” Spencer asks, mouth lifting slightly into a knowing smile.
“I think that if she hadn’t spread her legs quite so much, she might not be dead,” Irene replies bluntly.
“Did you know any of the people?” It’s highly likely that her killer was one of her “frequent visitors.” It would explain how they got so close without damaging anything. “Were any of them frequent visitors? Faces you may recognise?”
She shakes her head. Some of her tea spills over the side as she puts it on the coffee table, hands unsteady. “No, I’m sorry. I just water her plants when she’s away for the weekend. I hear the cars, but I don’t look.”
I don’t believe that for a second. I doubt she’s going to admit to being a voyeur, though. I’m at least convinced she has no useful information we can use. I pull out a card from my inner pocket and pass it over. It simply has my pseudonym, fake details about my profession, and the address of Riley’s precinct—he’ll cover if she goes a roundabout way and contacts the station instead of me directly—and a number for a burner phone that’s not linked to anyone and used for situations like this. “If you think of anything else that may be relevant to the investigation, give us a call. If we have any follow-up questions, we’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks for the cake, it was delicious!” Spencer says. “Let me put these dishes back into the kitchen.”
I stand and awkwardly shake her hand while we wait. It’s clammy and cold, and I resist the urge to wipe my hand on my pants right after. “Thank you for your time,” I say politely. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I won’t say anything,” she promises. “I signed all your paperwork. I hope you can find who did this to her and let her soul rest.”
“We’ll do our best.”
She escorts us out without another word, and the door closes behind us with a quiet click. There’s something off about all of this. I’m not convinced she has nothing to do with it, though I can’t say why. It sits below the surface. An itch at the back of my mind that I can’t scratch.
Spencer stops on the bottom step, and I turn back to him curiously.
“What is it? Did you forget your wallet?”
Spencer doesn’t answer, worrying his lip with his fingers. He glances behind himself to where the curtain moves. She’s watching us. “Something’s not right.”
“The tea wasn’t poisoned, Spence, you just don’t like it. Besides, you made them, remember?” I take hold of his hand and tug him down the last step and then toward our car. “What are you thinking?”
“Can you circle the block around to the next street over? Behind their houses.”
“Alright.” There’ll never be a time where I don’t trust Spencer implicitly. If he wants something, I’ll move heaven and earth to give it to him. Driving around the corner isn’t exactly a hardship. Even if I don’t know why he wants me to do it.
Once we get around to the next street, he tells me to pull over in front of a house that butts up against the back of Veronica’s house. “No car in the drive. Think anyone’s home?”
“We can check,” I say, hopping out.
After a quick knock on the door and a tap of the doorbell that sets a dog off inside, we confirm that no one’s home. “Are we breaking and entering? Who lives here?”
Spencer shakes his head and goes around the corner of the house, forcing me to follow him.
Without a word of warning, he hikes himself easily over the six-foot fence and drops into Veronica’s backyard. I just go right over it after him, landing heavily on the grass. Luckily it hasn’t been raining in the last day—this time of the year it’s touch and go—and it’s not overly slippery.
He puts a hand on my thigh, looking down at my leg with a concerned frown. “Alright?”
“It’s fully healed, Spence; you have to stop looking at it like it’s about to collapse under me.”
Instead of answering, he gives me a quick kiss, swiping his tongue over my bottom lip.
“What are we doing here, Spence?”
Spencer drops to a knee at the back door, pulling tools from a pocket and going to work on the lock. Apparently, we’re breaking in. Alright.
“We checked over the place just the other day,” I point out. We didn’t miss anything. And neither did Riley, Hunter, or Quinn. The five of us went over every inch of the house, and even if one or two of us missed something, the other three would have picked it up.
“I know.”
I don’t bother pushing further. He’s barely listening to me while he focuses, and he’ll tell me when he’s ready. We’re not here for no reason; Spencer always has a reason for everything he does even if it doesn’t make sense to the rest of the world. Or to me, even.
Stepping up behind him, I cradle his back against my legs and thread my fingers through his hair. The soft strands glide pleasantly over my skin. He washed it today, and I can smell the faint musky, floral scent. I want to bend over and press my nose to it and breathe it in deep. If we were anywhere else, I would have.
“That’s distracting,” Spencer murmurs.
“Is it? Sounds like you need to work on your concentration.”
His deep chuckle goes straight to my gut, and my fingers clench in his hair. The chuckle turns into a sigh, and he leans his head back against my thigh, his cheek grazing my dick. Fucking hell.
The door swings open a second later, and Spencer stands, giving me a momentary reprieve from the feel of him.
He doesn’t look at or touch anything, just strides through each room with a purpose I can’t even begin to understand.
“What are you looking for?” I ask. “I can’t help unless I know what the hell is going on.”
Spencer stops in the middle of the living room and turns back to me. “Notice anything?”
“No, Spence, I don’t. We’ve done this already.” Frustration seeps into my voice. What are we doing here? If there was something to find, we’d have found it the morning we were here.
“Irene said she comes over to water Veronica’s plants.”
“Yeah, so?” If he has a point, I’d like him to get to it. The longer we’re here, the more chance we have of being caught.
“Ken, do you see any plants?” Spencer asks patiently.
I freeze. A quick survey of the room proves his point. Mother fucker . “Not in her room?”
“None at all. No garden beds outside, no hanging plants. There’s not a single thing that requires watering on this property. And Irene mentioned someone who mows the lawn. There’s nothing to maintain.”
I rub my forehead. Shit. “The cake story was true.” One lie and a truth. I don’t like these kinds of games.
“Or a really fucking good alibi. We don’t really know when she baked it.”
“She can’t have killed her, Spence. Even if she wanted to, she doesn’t have the strength required to hold Veronica down or cause the bruising that we saw.”
“Accomplice?”
“For what purpose? It sounds like they had a good arrangement going on.” Mostly. Maybe Irene didn’t like how Veronica chose to spend her free time, but she got free gardening—if she’s telling the truth. Sounds like a sweet deal to me.
“I don’t claim to know why anyone commits murder. It doesn’t always have to make sense. Twist a mind around far enough, and eventually it creates its own reality. They can convince themselves they’re doing it for all the right reasons and justify it so they don’t have to feel guilty.”
So where the hell did that leave us?