Chapter 5 The Friendly Counsel #2
“Right. So I shouldn’t.” I fidget with the empty cup in front of me, then look up at him. “Right?”
Theo inhales, the scent of roasted coffee beans filling the air, then slowly exhales.
“Well, you know I’ll kick his ass if he messes up.
” He scratches the back of his head, gaze drifting to the bustling café around us.
“But Scarlett…” His gaze holds mine. “You don’t have to listen to me or Paige.
You’ll know what feels right. All you need to do is trust your gut. ”
Trust your gut, Scarlett, I tell myself as I sit in the worn leather chair, my fingers drumming an anxious rhythm on the armrest. Chief Donovan’s office is a cluttered space, walls adorned with commendations and faded photographs of stern-faced officers.
I used to come to the police station all the time to bring Dad lunch, but I haven’t stepped foot in here since my parents passed.
It’s smaller than I remembered. Cluttered, dusty, dead.
Dad always talked of how with the nearly inexistent crime rate in Willowbrook, he barely even felt like a police officer. Mom always “praised the Lord” for it.
The silence is deafening, broken only by the occasional rustle of papers or the gentle hum of an ancient desktop computer.
Through the grimy window, I can see the entire police force of Willowbrook—all four of them—hunched over their desks.
Officer Jenkins, a portly man with a receding hairline, is wolfing down a jelly donut next to Trevor, while Wes, who was my dad’s partner, pores over what looks like a stack of parking tickets.
Vanessa, with her blond hair tucked under a cap, is smiling at her phone, probably texting Paige.
My eyes dart to the clock on the wall. It’s 3:47 p.m. I’ve been waiting for a while, but I’m not leaving. I’m trusting my gut, just like Theo said.
I breathe out deeply, hoping to quell the butterflies in my stomach. This theory of mine is wild, I know. But the pieces fit together too perfectly to ignore. The flowers on Catherine Blake’s body, the writing on the wall, the strangulation—I can’t get any of it out of my mind, so I won’t.
Seriously, where is this guy?
The door creaks open, and Chief Donovan shuffles in, his weathered face a map of wrinkles and worry lines. He settles into his squeaky chair with a groan.
“Scarlett, how are ya?” he says, his voice gravelly from years of cigarettes. “We haven’t seen you in a while. How can I help you, sweetheart?”
“I appreciate you seeing me, Chief. I’m sure you’re, um, busy, but I have some information about the Catherine Blake case that I think you need to hear.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “What could you possibly know about it?”
I lean forward, bracing for what’s coming. “When I read about the crime on the Whistle, I recognized the MO.”
“The MO, huh?” he asks. His skeptical tone is already bugging me.
“Yes. There’s this book—really popular—that came out just a couple of weeks ago.
The Thornwood Butcher.” I wait for him to take a note, but he doesn’t.
“In the story, the victim is a historian who’s kidnapped while she’s out with her dog.
Her throat is slit, her eyes removed. And her mouth is stuffed with flowers.
The killer even leaves a bloody message on the wall. ”
He keeps staring at me, smoothening his thick white mustache. “Okay. So… you’re suggesting that the author acted out his murder fantasy?”
What? “N-no,” I mumble. “I’m suggesting that someone copycatted the murder from the book.”
“Hmm.” He looks through the window, as if wishing one of his colleagues would come rescue him. “Well, sweetheart. I appreciate your visit. We’ll be looking into this. Say hi to your brother when you see him, will ya?”
He stands, but I stay put, my shoulders rolling back. They won’t look into it—hell, he didn’t even write the title down. “I don’t think you mean that, actually.”
“Of course I do! Ethan is a good kid—”
“I’m talking about the book.”
He sits down again. “Look, sweet—”
“Scarlett,” I interject.
“Scarlett,” he repeats after a moment. “Blake’s eyes weren’t removed.”
“But she had abrasions around her eyes, did she not?”
“Yes,” he concedes.
“So what if the killer tried to remove her eyes but couldn’t?”
He looks at his watch, then back at me. “Why not?”
“Maybe it was their first try. Maybe they got spooked. Blake’s daughter called her mom, right? Maybe the phone call—”
“What about the flowers, then? They weren’t in the victim’s mouth.”
I exhale, thinking it through. “Rigor mortis.”
“Excuse me?”
“If the killer was inexperienced, they might not have accounted for the rigor mortis. When the body stiffened, the flowers could have fallen out.” I watch his blotchy face turn a sickly yellow. “Where were the flowers?”
“I can’t tell you that, swee—Scarlett.”
I’ve read countless articles about this—the flowers were on the victim. “Down on her chest?” I suggest.
His mouth opens, then closes.
“Look, I’m telling you, it’s just too similar. Someone who read this book committed the murder.”
He leans back in his chair. “Scarlett, where were you Thursday night?”
Oh, come on. “Really? I’m your suspect? I’m solving the case for you.” When his expression doesn’t waver, I roll my eyes. “I was home with my cat.”
“Will your cat corroborate your story?”
Realizing he’s just pulling my leg, I sigh and look away.
“Listen here, Scarlett. I’ve been doing this job for thirty years, and I’ve seen it all. You know what happens every time we get a weird case? Every amateur sleuth and conspiracy theorist crawls out of the woodwork.”
I start to protest, but he holds up a hand.
“Last time, we had a fella from two counties over who swore up and down that it was the work of alien abductors. Said the pruning shears we found were actually a sophisticated extraterrestrial weapon. And let’s not forget the conspiracy nuts who thought it was all tied to some government cover-up.”
I feel my face flush with frustration. “Chief, you know me. I’m not some crackpot—”
“We’re dealing with an actual victim here, a real family torn apart,” he interrupts. “I can’t go chasing after every wild theory that comes through that door.”
“But this isn’t just some random coincidence. The details are too specific, too exact. You have to look into it.”
He sighs, rubbing his temples. “All right, Scarlett. We’ll be in touch.”
I notice him glancing at the TV on one side of the room.
I must be keeping him from some important show, I guess.
This feels like a waste of my time, anyway.
He decided the moment he saw me that a sweetheart like me couldn’t possibly help.
Hell, I don’t even think he really thinks I could have committed this murder.
I stand, then walk to the door. Before stepping out, I turn around again. Donovan is reaching for the remote, Catherine Blake already a distant memory.
“The past never dies,” I say.
The remote falls from his hand and onto the desk with a dull thud.
“That’s what was written on the wall, wasn’t it?
With the victim’s blood?” He says nothing, so I press on.
“That information wasn’t released to the public.
So it’s one of two options, Chief Donovan.
Either I’m your killer…” I step closer, then take a copy of The Thornwood Butcher out of my bag.
“Or you and your people have some reading to do.”