Chapter 24 Hughes
HUGHES
Dammit. “Look, Willow,” I say when she stomps out of the bathroom, basket in one hand, dildo in the other.
“Is this some sort of weird fetish thing? Did you steal this out of my shed?”
“Your grandmother bought you a new one. She wanted to make sure you had something you were familiar with.” I swallow.
“Oh God,” Willow groans, sinking onto the couch. “This is a disaster. I’d say I need to go home, but I can’t!”
“Hey, if you want to get out of sleeping with me, no problem.” I smirk. “I’m sure I can scrounge you a hotel room somewhere. Though we might have to go to the next town over. I’ll just jack off later, thinking about your tits.”
Two spots color her cheeks. She sputters, “That’s not what I’m trying to do.”
“Really?” I lean over her on the couch. “Don’t you want to unwrap my Christmas present?” I press a kiss to her neck.
“Mm-hm,” she moans.
I lean down to suck on one pink nipple. I’m rock-hard at how her breathing intensifies, turning into pants just from my tongue.
“Give me a white Christmas,” she moans, reaching for my pants.
I groan when she touches the bulge in my boxer briefs, grab her hair when she mouths against the fabric.
“Where do you want your white Christmas?” I can barely get the words out.
“I’ll show you.” She pulls down the boxer briefs.
Her hand is perfect as she runs her thumb along the tip, twists her grip, licks the tip of my cock, takes it in her mouth, then finally squeezes me between her perfect tits.
I grip the back of the couch, lost in the sound of her, the feel of her.
“I’m dreaming,” she sings slightly off-key, “of a white”—she squeezes her tits around me—“Christmas.”
She sighs as I explode all over her chest and chin.
“Come to bed,” I beg her once I can string two words together. I lean in, kiss her mouth, her breasts…
“Wait…” She’s staring up at the board. “Where is the list of all the people from Jonah’s therapy practice?” she demands, pushing me off.
It takes a full minute for my brain to make its way sluggishly from my dick to my head. “Uhhh…”
“Focus.” She snaps her fingers.
“A really tall order.” My eyes are glued to her tits.
She huffs and closes the robe.
“I mean, is it really pertinent that we solve this murder?” I pull out the digitized list we made and search for Maris’s name. “Nothing. Can we please go to bed now?”
“No.” Her eyes narrow. “I’m missing something… Search for my name?”
“What?”
“Taylor Grace made me go do a few therapy sessions with her and Dr. Merriweather when I was trying way too hard to, quote, ‘make things work and be understanding and hear her and leave space for her trauma,’ unquote.”
“You’re not listed,” I tell her.
“Search for Taylor’s name.”
I type it in dutifully. “There are tons.”
“Where are the July dates?”
I scroll through. “There. It says, ‘Taylor Grace and guest.’”
“Search for ‘guest.’” She peers over my shoulder.
“There, August two years ago. It has to be Maris. They were still in business together then. Taylor Grace probably made her go too.” Willow claps her hands.
“You don’t understand,” she says to my look of confusion.
“Taylor Grace and Dr. Merriweather use it as a way to gang up on you, gaslight you, make you feel small and stupid. It was a horrible experience, and it was the beginning of the end for us. I had Josie to help me through. But Maris? I bet she hated Dr. Merriweather just as much as I did.” Willow stands up. “We need to go find her.”
“Where is she? Who knows where she’s staying? With all the tourists, it’ll be difficult to sort out.”
“I know who knows,” Willow says firmly.
“Who?”
“Lenore.”
It’s dark as we walk through town. A few drunks are stumbling around, doing their best to make the hall of fame on #DrunksOfHgate, and a few lost tourists stop to ask us for directions to their Airbnbs.
Lenore’s huge house is dark.
“We can’t just wake her up,” I hiss.
“Maris could be staying here. Let’s just look in the bedrooms. We can climb up the porch roof around back,” Willow whispers. “Come on.”
I curse and run after her around the side of the house then stop short when we see a dark figure standing over a bubbling cauldron, the flames licking the big black pot as a woman—a witch!—tosses leaves into the pot.
“Bubble, bubble, spark and flame,” the witch chants. “Whisper softly the cursed name. Ashes fall and shadows creep. Bind the secret, dark and deep.” The witch points her wand at us. “Hark! Who goes there? Speak, evil demons!”
“Um…” Willow holds up her hands. “We’re just here to check that you have an adequate amount of Christmas cheer.”
“Are you fuckers from the homeowners association? I swear to God—” The witch pulls her hood back, and Lenore glares at us. “My husband just died, and there’s snow all over everything. You can’t even see the grass. Oh, Willow, you work for the HOA now? Sold your soul, I see.”
“Er, no, just here trying to figure out what happened to Taylor Grace.” Willow grimaces. “The cops are all over me.”
“You too? Yeah, they’re after me as well. I’m like, you all waste so much taxpayer money, and yet the coroner still hasn’t actually done an autopsy on Jonah. It’s a scam they’re running down at city hall,” Lenore complains.
“Yeah, so we just wanted to see if Maris was here?”
“Now, why would she be here?” Lenore taps her wand on the cauldron.
“Well, you said she was a family friend.”
“Yeah, she’s at her grandmother’s house. She’s helping manage her Airbnb guests. I should probably rent this house out,” Lenore muses. “Jonah hated the Airbnb-ing. He was constantly calling the Christmas committee on people. It was so obnoxious.”
“Where does her grandmother live?” I ask.
“What, is he on something?” Lenore asks Willow, jerking her wand in my direction. “You dropped off Christmas treats at Mrs. Locke’s house earlier this week. I had one of your granny’s chocolate tarts. Amazing. I’d ask for the recipe, but I’m the worst cook.”
Back out on the street, Willow is deep in thought.
“Guess we’re going to Mrs. Locke’s house,” I say uncertainly.
Willow makes a noncommittal noise. She’s scrolling on her phone.
My stomach sinks. I thought what we’d shared earlier was the best thing ever, better than seeing the eight-figure number in my bank account, better than when one of my supervisors tried to call me out in a meeting and I got to correct that asshole in front of everyone.
Does she regret it? Is she trying to communicate subtly that she made a mistake?
The sun is rising as we make our way to Mrs. Locke’s house. Willow knocks on the door.
“I don’t think she’s awake yet—”
“Willow, what a surprise!” Mrs. Locke beams. “And Hughes! Did you come to bring more Christmas goodies?”
“Actually,” Willow says, “we were looking for Maris.”
“Oh! She’s not been here tonight. I’m hoping that she was out with a boy.
Her last marriage ended in divorce, poor thing.
And no babies. I’m sure there’s a nice man in Harrogate for her.
” The elderly woman beams at us. “I was hoping to gently nudge her in your direction, Hughes, but I see Beryl has beaten me to the punch. Invite me to the wedding, you two!” She pats my chest. “Maris should be back later. She texted and said she was going to try and bag a turkey for my snow garden party. She’s by the old Harrogate Estate, the one the Svenssons took over.
Now there’s where she needs to find her future husband!
I think they all come in for Christmas. A billionaire grandson-in-law. I could have a boat!”
“Willow,” I say as we drive silently out to where the industry titans of old built massive country estates with hundreds of acres of forested land. “Do you want to talk about—”
“Mrs. Locke’s name is on the list,” Willow interjects.
“What?”
“The list I got from the jeweler of who had earrings like these made.” She pulls it out of her pocket.
“The earring you found in your stall?” I blow out a breath. “Damn. Did we solve it?”
“I think we did.” Willow is grim.
“Shouldn’t we call the police?” I slow the car as I approach the trailhead.
“Maris knows how to hunt. She’s been gone for a while.
She has the motive to kill Dr. Merriweather and Taylor Grace.
She’s been on the lam since yesterday,” Willow reminds me.
“She could be halfway to Australia by now. If we call the police and, for some reason, she hasn’t bolted yet, they’re just going to fumble it and spook her. ”
She turns to me. “Do you have your recording device ready?”
I nod.
“We’re just going to try and get some clues, maybe a confession that we can present with more evidence. We’ll make her think we’re asking about someone else killing Taylor Grace. Make her think she’s home free.” Willow outlines the plan.
We step out of the car. The trees rise high into the cold winter morning. It’s going to be a tall order to find anyone out here.
“Think it will work?” I stare up at the ancient forest.
“We have to try.”
“Or we could go back home, and I can make a winter wonderland up your—”
“Shh!”
Our footfalls are muffled in the early-morning snow. I love walking in the woods in winter, when it’s peaceful and beautiful, but today? It feels sinister, like we’re being watched.
Suddenly, there’s a loud crack of a gun firing. Beside me, Willow lets out a cry, jerks, and falls face-first to the ground.