Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
M onica Luna stood eye-to-eye with Ophelia in her bare feet—a rare occurrence, given Ophelia’s height. While both women were tall, Monica had a full-figured frame, her generous curves filling out her beige sweater and dark jeans as though they’d been tailored for her. She was stunning, with striking blue eyes, thick brown hair, and full pink lips. This time, however, Ophelia found herself resenting that beauty.
“I’m sorry about this, Olly.” Monica looked pale today. Her gaze moved beyond Ophelia to Brock waiting in the truck and she gave a hesitant wave. “I screwed up.” Then she stepped to the side. “Come on in.”
“Sorry? You knew I was coming?”
Monica nodded. “Brock texted me a heads up.”
Well, that just figured. Ophelia stepped inside the warm home, somewhat surprised Monica and Brock had managed to keep their one night a secret. There seemed to be no secrets in Knife’s Edge—except those involving murders. “Thank you.” She kicked off her snow boots in the small alcove and handed over her coat. Dots of snow still flecked the collar. “When is it going to stop snowing?”
“Around May,” Monica said quietly, hanging the coat on a series of angled hooks. “Can I offer you coffee?”
“Sure.” Ophelia followed her into a wide living area with a flatscreen mounted above a stone fireplace that was crackling happily. “I’m not arresting you and you’re under no type of detainer, but you have a right to have a lawyer present if you want.”
Monica hitched into the adjoining kitchen, which had been painted a cheerful yellow. “That’s okay.” She filled two mugs with coffee and strode around a wide island. “Let’s sit by the fire.” Monica carried two thick red mugs around a denim sofa and sat in the adjoining chair, shoving aside a bright yellow throw pillow that made the room feel lived-in and warm.
Ophelia followed, curling into the corner of the couch and letting the fire's warmth seep into her. Monica’s house was full of personal touches—handmade quilts draped over chairs, shelves packed with books and framed photos, and a faint scent of vanilla lingering in the air.
“David’s working long hours with the snowplow.” Monica wrapped her hands around her mug. “I regret my drunken night with Brock because we’re just friends and it was stupid. But you two weren’t dating at the time, and neither were David and I.”
Ophelia appreciated the frankness. “I understand.” She paused, studying Monica. “You don’t think you should tell David?”
“No.” Monica’s gaze drifted around the room before settling back on Ophelia. “He’d broken up with me at the time—not sure if he wanted to get serious. And I don’t think it’s his business. Why make things difficult around here? Brock and I got drunk, got naked, and both regretted it.”
Ophelia swallowed the bitter taste rising in her throat. Did he whisper soft words into the woman’s ear after sex? Did he hold her the same way? She shoved down the thoughts, forcing herself to focus on the investigation. “Tell me about that morning.”
Monica shrugged, the steam from her mug wafting up. “I lived briefly at the Tundra Complex before David and I got back together, and it’s on the opposite side of town. We’d taken my snowmobile from the bar the night before, so I had to give Brock a ride back to the tavern to get his. It was so freaking awkward because we both knew we’d made a big mistake. We were later than we liked getting back and didn’t want anybody to see both of us on my sled, so we went the roundabout way by Crocker’s Creek.” She paled even more. “That’s where we saw Hank.”
Ophelia forced her gaze down into her coffee, pretending to be unaffected. “What did you see?”
Monica gulped, her eyes getting a faraway look. “He lay in the river, face up, obviously dead. Blood still poured from his chest.” She placed her mug on the coffee table and rubbed her arms as if she couldn’t get warm.
Ophelia looked around the cozy house, trying to shift the conversation. “Then what?”
“Brock pulled Hank from the creek, and we had to leave him there to ride into town and tell the sheriff.”
“The sheriff saw the scene?”
Monica nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”
So where did the pictures go? Or had Blazerton taken any? “Why would the sheriff keep your name as well as Brock’s out of his report? Who found the body is always important.”
Monica reached for her coffee. “The sheriff was my uncle on my mom’s side. He knew Brock and I didn’t kill Hank, and he didn’t want to mess up my life because of David. Family matters around here, Olly.”
Obviously. Ophelia took in a deep breath. “Did you see anybody around the body?”
“No.”
That tracked. “Who do you think killed Hank?”
“Somebody by accident, I’m sure.” Monica shook her head. “Everyone knows you’re looking at the Osprey brothers, but it doesn’t make sense.” She rubbed a thumb along the edge of her cup. “I attended the funeral. All four of those men—so trained and deadly—and yet in that moment, they all became little boys again. Lost ones. I’ve never felt such pain in a room.”
Ophelia’s throat tightened at the thought of the Osprey brothers grieving like that—each of them powerful, dangerous, and still utterly human.
“Then why are they all blocking my investigation?” Ophelia blurted out, the words sharper than she intended.
Monica’s expression shifted, her lips turning down in a frown. “Because it hurts…and it’s over.”
Ophelia opened her mouth to argue, but Monica pressed on.
“They’re finally healing, Ophelia. They’ve all come home again. Ace, Christian, Damian, and even Brock—they scattered after Hank died. And now, they’re trying to be brothers again.” Her voice softened. “A hunter killed Hank, and you’re just stirring up the pain.”
Ophelia’s hands tightened around her mug. “I don’t think it was that simple.”
Monica sighed. “I know you don’t. But you’re an outsider here. When you poke at old wounds, the people who stayed behind are the ones who bleed.”
The fire crackled as the silence stretched between them. Ophelia understood Monica’s words, but that didn’t change what she knew deep down—Hank’s death wasn’t random.
And someone in this town was hiding the truth.
Ophelia’s eyebrows rose on their own. “How did you know Damian returned to town?”
Monica chuckled. “I heard from Amka at Sam’s, who heard it from Flossy, who heard it from…”
“I’ve got it,” Ophelia said. “Gossip in a small town, right?” But had there been an inflection in Monica’s tone? “You stressed Flossy’s name. You seemed like friends when we quilted together.”
“We are now, but she didn’t like me when David dumped me. They’re second cousins.” Monica took a deeper gulp this time. She leaned forward. “She knew I slept with Brock since she worked at the sheriff’s station and was there that morning when we reported the death.”
So even Flossy could keep a good secret. Interesting. “You’re friends now.”
“Yeah, she forgave me, but she was pissy for a while. She even stitched a vulture into the quilt she entered in the spring fair, and I know it represented me, but she won’t admit it even now.”
Ophelia winced. “That had to hurt.”
Monica snorted. “Not really. Her idiosyncrasies are endearing. Now Flossy creates these little robin decorations to represent me. I think she realized that David was the one to temporarily end things between us. She’s even growing the flowers for our wedding in her greenhouse. Life is weird.”
“Maybe,” Ophelia agreed, though she had trouble imagining what it felt like to have someone craft an evil bird in your honor. “Who else knows about your night with Brock and that you possibly found Hank’s body?”
Monica shrugged. “You never know in a small town. We did see Amka opening the tavern when we drove by on the snowmobile, so I’m sure she figured it out.”
Ophelia paused. “I thought you said you got a late start.”
“Yeah. That’s why we tried to avoid town.”
“What time does Amka usually open the tavern?” From what Ophelia had understood, Amka opened early. Very.
Monica tapped her finger on her lips. “Huh. Usually crack of dawn for those early fishermen, even the ice fishermen, to fill their thermoses with spiked coffee. I guess she got a late start that day, too.”
Which would explain how Jarod knew about the affair. Amka must’ve told him. Yet another issue to discuss with Amka. “How well did you know Hank?”
“As well as anybody in town,” Monica said easily, taking a sip from her mug. “I talked to him a few times at the doctor’s office. I was having thyroid issues and had to go in once a week, and Hank hung out in the waiting room now and then. He gave me some great tips to find good fishing holes up Crocker’s Creek.”
Ophelia leaned into another bright yellow throw pillow, her body going on alert at the mention of the doctor. “Who was the doctor at the time?”
“A dorky guy named Sheriton Zimmer who definitely missed living in sunny California. He couldn’t wait to serve his three months and leave. It’s amazing we got Doc May to sign a three-year contract.”
Ophelia steered the conversation back as her blood hummed. “Why was Hank seeing the doctor?”
“Dunno,” Monica said with a shrug. “But he’d definitely lost weight and didn’t look as robust as usual that Christmas season. A bad flu hit a bunch of the older folks in town, and Hank had just turned seventy, you know?”
Facts shifted around in Ophelia’s head like puzzle pieces sliding into place. Hank’s age, his health, his routine…something wasn’t lining up. He’d been a man of habit, strong-willed and private. Why hadn’t anyone mentioned health issues before now? “Is there anything else you can tell me about Hank’s death?”
Monica’s fingers tightened slightly around her mug. “No.”
Ophelia didn’t have any other questions regarding Hank. Right now, anyway. “You said you lived at the Tundra. So did Tamara Randsom. Did you cross paths?”
“Oh, no. I moved back in with David in early February when we reconnected, and he proposed. I don’t think Tammy moved out there until after that. Before you ask, I have no clue who would’ve killed her.” Monica cleared her throat, as if shaking herself loose from the tension. “Look…I’m sorry if my drunken night with Brock caused any awkwardness between you and me. I enjoyed quilting with you.” She offered a tentative smile. “I hope we can move on.”
Ophelia blinked, caught off guard by the offer.
As an olive branch, it wasn’t a bad one.
“Of course,” Ophelia said, returning the smile. “I enjoyed quilting too.” She felt a small measure of relief that Brock had an alibi, even though her gut had never pegged him as Hank’s killer. “And none of this is really relevant to the case right now…I don’t think.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I’ll do my best to keep your name out of the report, but I can’t guarantee that the truth won’t come out.”
Monica gave a relieved nod.
Ophelia sipped her coffee, letting the warmth ease the tension in her chest. Whoever killed Tammy—and Hank—had left a tangle of lies and secrets in their wake. She wasn’t sure how long it would take to unravel, but one thing was certain—she needed the truth.
“I don’t want to interfere at all.” Monica shifted on the sofa. “But the buzz around town is that you and Brock are serious. I’ve never seen him look at anybody like he does you, and as his friend, I hope you give him another chance.” She finished her coffee. “I learned the hard way that you have to fight for love, and you have a really good chance with Brock. He’s a good man, Ophelia. Loyal to a fault—even with friends. Please just say you’ll consider it.”
“I will,” Ophelia meant it but she feared that Hank’s death would always be between them, if she discovered his killer…or if she couldn’t. The truth lurked somewhere, in plain sight, hiding behind familiar faces and friendly smiles. “Thank you.”
Monica perked up. “Oh. Speaking of buzz around town, I heard you’re looking for a vehicle to buy or rent.”
Ophelia placed her mug down on a coaster on the coffee table and straightened. “I do. Please tell me you have something.”
“I have an older Jeep that we just don’t need, and I planned to wait until spring to sell it, but it’s yours if you want it.”
“I want it.” Ophelia finally relaxed. She needed to pursue the investigation herself and now had a different theory that finally clicked the obscure facts into place…and led her right down the path she’d already been pursuing. But now she might know the why , if not the who. “Is that Jeep ready to go?”