Chapter Forty-Three
The wind needled through Ash’s hair as the hog ate up Amberville’s streets, cold and sharp enough to clear the last tatters of stupor from his skull.
The city blurred by; brick facades, neon scars, wet pavement glossed like old film, yet the world seemed sharper somehow, fresher.
Seven hours of sleep had worked small miracles.
Oh, but sleep is not the reason, and you know it.
His body still tingled from what they’d done before dawn—and then again in the shower, steam curling around them until Rick had him pinned to the tiles, driving into him with the same inexhaustible hunger.
Hot water should’ve rinsed the ache away.
Instead, it carved it deeper. Not that Ash was complaining.
He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this alive.
Breakfast had followed in a haze of wet hair, rumpled clothes, and the clinging tang of smoke.
Oatmeal, black coffee—practical, quick. It was the simplicity of it that got to him more than the bruises on his hips.
Those will fade soon enough. Something domestic lingered in the ritual, a quiet rhythm dangerous in its own right.
If he wasn’t careful, he could get used to it.
He leaned into a turn, the Eldorado’s hulking shape visible in his mirror, prowling faithfully behind. Ash told himself he preferred his own ride, that he didn’t like being caged, but the truth was simpler: he needed the wind in his face to keep his thoughts from knotting.
By the time they cut the engines outside a stone-fronted gallery, the day had settled into its gray pall.
Calgrave sky pressed low, a light that made glass glint brittle and marble look older than it was.
The building rose in clean Deco lines, windows tall and squared, spilling glimpses of canvases and sculpture into the street.
Stylized reliefs framed the entrance, figures frozen in geometric poise, their edges sharp as razors.
A row of golden-leafed trees flanked the sidewalk, dressed in season’s colors. Beth Walker’s place of work.
Ash dismounted the bike, raking a hand through his hair, tousled by the ride as much as by Rick’s fingers an hour earlier.
Across the curb, Rick shut the Eldorado’s door and turned the key, fedora brim pulled low, black coat flaring in the breeze.
For a moment, Ash let himself watch him cross the sidewalk: that deliberate stride, broad shoulders set to a weight no one else seemed to see.
Rick caught his stare. “You ready?”
Ash’s mouth curved. “Always.”
They went in together, the hush of the gallery wrapping around them like a heavy curtain.
The place smelled of polish and lilies, the kind of cultivated air that tried too hard not to smell of anything at all.
Light fell in clean planes from overhead fixtures, sharpening edges, bleaching shadows.
The walls were pale, hung with canvases that bled in violent reds and bruised blues, splashes of color straining against the sterile calm.
Bronze torsos stood on pedestals, caught mid-motion, every muscle frozen in the pose of a struggle or an embrace; Ash couldn’t always tell the difference.
Their footsteps tapped over the varnished wood, crisp as billiard shots.
At the front desk, a young man in a neat waistcoat looked up from his brochure.
His gaze snagged on Rick first, the cop’s imposing size pulling everything to him like gravity.
Then it drifted, unwillingly, to Ash, where it dawdled.
Pupils flared. Ash felt it, that familiar buzz against his skin, an invisible hand brushing close without touching.
He gave the man a slow blink in return, enough to make him flush and fumble his catalog.
Rick opened his coat and tugged his badge into view, clipped neat to his belt. His voice carried deep and steady, the kind of tone that left no room for misunderstanding. “Detective Slade, Calgrave Homicide. We’re here to see Beth Walker.”
The man blinked, flustered, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“One moment.” He scurried along the hallway, shoes squeaking too loud for the hush he left behind.
Ash tilted his head, listening. The murmur of voices seeped from the rear office, low and excited, gossip taking root before the ink was dry.
He glanced toward Rick, wondering if wolf ears under that fedora could pick it up better than his own.
Rick’s face, as always, gave nothing away.
Beth appeared soon after, heels stabbing the floorboards in a loud staccato.
She was brunette, sleek bob tucked behind one ear, pearls shining pale at her throat.
The fitted vintage suit she wore was dark as wine, her posture cut clean as a blade.
Cultivated elegance, the kind that could charm or slice depending on her mood.
Her gaze swept the room, skimmed over Rick, weighing him, filing him where all cops belonged. When it landed on Ash, it paused. A spark caught, quick and bright, before she smothered it beneath composure.
He almost smiled. They always tried.
“I’m Beth,” she said, voice smooth as glass. “What’s this about?”
Rick’s tone stayed professional, carrying that practiced cadence of interrogation: calm, direct, each word designed to narrow the field. “We’d like to ask you a few questions. You mind if we talk here?”
Her chin angled, defensive tilt below the polish. “I’m kind of busy right now.”
Ash leaned an elbow against the front desk, letting casual ease seep into his bones. His mouth curled, not quite a smile, more suggestion than substance. “Beth,” he said, rolling the name like a coin. His voice dropped soft, coaxing. “We just want to talk. Won’t take long.”
Her focus flicked to him again, the resistance cracking. Shoulders loosened. Something in her spine uncoiled, a ribbon slipping its knot. She hesitated only a breath, then gave the smallest shrug. “Fine. Follow me.”
Beth led them past the main hall into a side room, her heels clipping with a precision that dared them to keep up.
The space opened into what seemed like a private office repurposed as part-showroom: a heavy desk sat under a chandelier that dripped glass pendants, light scattering in fractured gleams across the pale walls.
A leafy plant sulked in one corner, glossy leaves catching dust, while black-and-white photographs lined the wall, angular portraits of strangers, their stares hard as mirrors.
Nice setup, Ash thought, drifting behind and letting his gaze wander. Everything posed, nothing lived in. Even the plant’s given up the ghost.
Rick stood near the center, his frame anchored, notebook already in hand, the stub of a pencil pinched ready between his fingers. “We talked to Griffin Shaw last night. He told us he was with you at the Green Fairy on the twenty-eighth of September. Is that correct?”
Beth folded her arms opposite him, her pearls catching stray flecks of light. “I don’t remember the exact date. But yes, we were there about a month ago.”
Ash brushed a finger along the back of a chair, leaned to peer at a framed print of a girl with sad eyes, and circled lazily toward the desk. He was aware of Beth’s stare tracking him the whole time. You can’t put me on display, sweetheart, he thought. I’m not one of your precious portraits.
“You confirm his statement, then?” Rick’s eyes locked on hers, immovable.
“I suppose,” she said, irritation sharpening the polish of her voice.
Ash dropped into the seat behind the desk, letting it spin half a turn left, right, left again. He tilted his head, let his voice soften. “We need more than ‘suppose,’ Beth. This is important.”
Her shoulders eased, her breath caught in the small pause before her words. “Fine. Yes. Griffin went there with me. I wanted to keep an eye on my ex.” Her lip twitched. “He’d just left me. I had to know if it was for someone else.”
“Of course you did,” Ash murmured, giving it another lazy spin.
Rick’s glance cut sharp as a paper edge toward him before returning to Beth. His pencil scratched across the page, a steady rhythm. “What’s his name?”
“Declan.” The word came bitter, bitten off. “Big shot at the Gazette. Bastard thinks he can treat people like trash because he’s got a byline.”
Rick’s head lifted, sudden, a break in the rhythm. “Declan Frost?”
Ash caught the flicker across Rick’s face, a jolt quickly buried, smoothed into that granite cop mask. Whoever Frost was, the name carried weight.
Beth’s whole posture shifted. Irritation melted into something almost gleeful, conspiratorial.
She leaned in a fraction, lips curling. “The same. Sweet talker, that one. Could weave poetry out of thin air. Then once he got what he wanted—poof. Gone quicker than a rat up a drainpipe. God, I feel like such a fool now. But I’m not the only one. Man leaves a trail.”
Ash swung around again, knees spread, arms draped loose over the rests.
Beth’s confession rang familiar: smooth talk, sharp teeth, a string of broken hearts.
Change the names, change the faces—it could be his rap sheet she was reciting.
He wondered how many of his own past conquests might say the same about him.
They’d have every right, just as Beth did.
Even if he always told himself he had reasons. Maybe Declan had his, too.
Rick reached into his coat and drew out a slim file, worn from travel. From it, he produced Elliot Price’s smiling face, glossy under the chandelier’s fractured light. He held it steady for Beth. “Was this the fellow he was with?”
Beth leaned forward, studying the photo. Her mouth pulled into a doubtful frown before settling. “I think so. I didn’t stare too long—I was just relieved it wasn’t another woman. But yes… I’d say so.”
Rick returned the photo to its folder, tucked it clean into his coat again. “Anything else you remember from that night? Who else you saw, times, details?”