Chapter 23 Ophelia
OPHELIA
Iwake up to the sound of tires crunching on gravel. The sky is a deep burnt amber and I fumble for my glasses on the nightstand to see the time is a little after seven in the morning.
“Silas?” I ask, sitting up when I hear car doors open and close.
He’s gone, his side of the bed empty.
I get up, pull on Silas’s discarded button down and cross the room to the windows that overlook the front of the house, buttoning up the shirt as I go. What I see outside, though, has me alert, the fog of sleep wiped clear.
There, on the driveway are three vehicles, two of which are patrol cars, one an unmarked sedan.
Four officers are climbing out of their cars, a fifth standing at the driver’s side door of the unmarked vehicle.
A man in a dark suit steps out of the passenger seat.
The officers wait for him to go ahead of them.
“Silas?” I call out, hurrying down the stairs as the doorbell rings.
From inside the kitchen, I smell coffee and bacon, and I’m almost to the bottom of the stairs when Silas comes down the hall wiping his hands on a towel. He must not have heard them pull up. The kitchen is at the back of the house.
“Good morning,” he says. “Looks good on you.” He gestures to his shirt, which comes to the middle of my thighs.
“Silas. It’s the police,” I say, hurrying to him.
The doorbell rings again and someone presses their forehead to the glass panel beside the door in an attempt to see in.
Silas’s expression hardens. He puts an arm out to place me behind him and walks to the door to answer it. He opens it and stops to take in the scene.
The plain clothes man stands at the door, hands in his pockets. His jacket is pushed back, and I can see the holster of a gun.
Behind him are three of the officers and the other two stand beside their cars.
“Yes?” Silas says to the plain clothes man.
“Silas Cruz?”
Silas nods.
“I’m Detective Wells of the Boston PD. We’re going to need you to come with us.”
“Why?”
“We have some questions we’d like you to answer.”
“What questions?”
“Well, for starters, we’d like to know what you were doing at Sullivan Fox’s office last night.”
Silas is clearly taken aback. “Why?”
“Mr. Cruz, if you’ll come with us,” Detective Wells says and steps aside, gesturing to the patrol cars.
“I don’t think I will. What the hell is going on?”
Detective Wells nods to one of the police officers who steps forward, a hand to the cuffs hooked to his belt.
“What’s going on?” I cry out.
“Ophelia. Go upstairs,” Silas says, never taking his eyes off the officers as he nudges me backward. “What is this about?” he asks Wells.
“Guess you haven’t seen the news this morning.” Silas waits, and I get the feeling Wells is enjoying this. “Sullivan Fox was murdered last night.”
“What?” he asks.
My mouth falls open. I’m stunned. A look at Silas tells me we both are.
“And it looks like you, Mr. Cruz, were the last person to see him alive. Let’s go.”
“He was alive and well when I left.”
“You can answer those questions at the station.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“We need you to come downtown.”
“He didn’t kill Sly!” I jump around Silas as a policeman comes into the house.
“Ma’am, step out of the way,” Wells says when the officer hesitates, looking at him for instruction.
“Ophelia. Upstairs. Now,” Silas says.
“No. They can’t just come in here and take you!”
“Remove her,” Wells instructs the officer who takes hold of me. The instant he does, Silas’s arm shoots out, and he grabs the officer’s wrist and twists his arm around his back.
“Don’t you dare touch her. Don’t lay a fucking finger on her!”
The next part happens so quickly, it’s almost a blur.
I stumble backward as all three officers storm into the house, grabbing Silas, who resists.
The coat rack falls over and I watch when it takes all of them—and they’re not small men—to restrain Silas, pulling his arms behind his back and cuffing him.
“Get him in the car,” Wells says and steps out of the way as they haul Silas, who doesn’t make it easy, out of the house and down the front stairs to the waiting patrol cars.
I run out after them, the porch floor freezing beneath my bare feet.
“Silas!”
“Call Nigella,” Silas says, turning to catch my eye. “Tell her to get to the station. Hamish will be here in an hour. Do not leave this house without him, Ophelia.”
I run down onto the drive and all I can do is watch as the patrol car he’s in is driven away, the second one following as if they expect trouble.
Wells comes to stand beside me. I hug my arms to myself as the cars disappear from sight.
“We’ll be downtown.” He hands me a card. “This is the address, but I suggest you stay home. It’ll be more comfortable for you while we interrogate Mr. Cruz.”
I snatch the card from his hand. He lets his gaze move over me and I pull the collar of the shirt closer, wondering how much of me he can see through the white shirt.
“Something’s burning,” he says, gesturing into the house.
I turn, smell what I guess is burnt bacon.
Without bothering to say goodbye, I hurry back into the house and slam the door shut, going straight to the kitchen to turn off the stove.
The coffee machine percolates, spitting out the last of the coffee, and I see where Silas had set two plates out.
Toast is already buttered on each, and one of the mugs already has cream in it.
What the hell just happened? Sullivan Fox is dead? And they think Silas killed him?
I look down at the card, then move back into the hallway to right the toppled coat rack. From inside the pocket of my coat, I take out my phone and scroll to Nigella’s number.
“This is Nigella,” she says, answering on the third ring.
“Nigella. It’s Ophelia.”
“Ophelia. It’s early. Has something happened?”
“They took Silas. The police…” I can’t finish. Why is this happening again? How?
“What? Why?”
“They just came to the house and took him away in handcuffs.” I hear how panicked I sound. “Sullivan Fox is dead.” To say the words, to hear them, makes me shiver with sudden cold.
He’s dead.
“Oh, fuck. And Silas was there.”
“You knew?”
“Where did they take him?” she asks instead of answering my question.
I tell her the address. “I’ll meet you there.”
“No. Just stay put. There won’t be anything you can do for him, Ophelia.”
“Can they just take him like that? I mean, they handcuffed him.”
“He has a history. And if he put up any kind of resistance, which I’m assuming he did…”
“He didn’t do it. He wouldn’t. That’s not him, not at all.”
“I know that. Let me get dressed and I’ll get down there. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
“I’ll come down.”
“Don’t. There really isn’t anything you can do, and they won’t let you see him anyway. Trust me and let me do my job.”
With a sigh, I end the call and set the phone down on the table beside the bowl where Silas had dropped the keys to the SUV.
I notice the sheets of paper still sitting on the table. The burned pages I hadn’t even had a chance to ask him about.
I leave them where they are and walk into the kitchen.
He’s dead.
Sullivan Fox is dead.
Murdered.
I don’t know what I feel. Don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.
I’m numb. I can’t process it just yet. They think Silas killed him.
That building has security cameras running 24/7.
They’ll have Silas on video coming and going.
Given their history, I’m not sure how easy it’s going to be for Nigella to get him home.
My head is swimming. I start to clean up, dumping the uneaten food and scraping burnt bacon from the pan. I’m on autopilot as I try to think about what I can do.
The doorbell rings when I set the last dish in the dishwasher. I assume it’s Hamish, so I pad down the hall to answer but when I pull it open, I’m surprised to see not Hamish, but Ethan standing there.
My first instinct is to slam it shut, but he takes two steps backward so he’s standing on the top step and puts up his hands. “Phee,” he says and something about his voice, the way it breaks, stops me.
He looks like hell. He looks like I’ve never seen him look. He’s wearing jeans and a hoodie that’s too big for him, no coat. It’s freezing. His car is parked behind the SUV. He’s got his hands pushed deep into his pockets and looks up at me from the stair, very clearly unsure of his reception.
“I’m sorry to just show up.” His hands shake as he pulls them out of his pockets and pushes the hood off his head.
His hair stands up in all directions. It looks like it hasn’t been combed in days and he hasn’t shaved in that long.
Dark circles ring his bloodshot eyes, and his cheeks are flushed with the cold.
He shudders. “Can I… I didn’t know where else to go. ”
He takes a step forward, but when I take one back, he stops. He holds up his hands again, his palms to me.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I just… What I did…
He… Shit, Phee. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.
I wouldn’t ever… Fuck. It kills me that I hurt you.
” He stops, breaking into sobs. His shoulders heave with their force.
I’ve never seen him cry. Never once have I seen Ethan Fox even remotely close to tears.
“Jesus, Ethan.” I take a step toward him, stopping when he looks up.
“Just come inside. It’s freezing.” I step aside and he makes an attempt at a smile.
That dimple on his cheek is almost there, but he tucks his hands back into his pockets and looks down at the ground as he crosses the porch and comes into the house.
I notice his shoes then. They’re dirty and worn, the laces ratty.
I’ve never seen them before. Ethan would never wear anything so old.
He waits a few feet in, and I close the door.
“You heard?”
I nod, and when he steps toward me, I hesitate for one moment before hugging him, his big body almost not quite fitting with his hunched shoulders and downcast face. His uncertainty.