Chapter 3 Beckett
Still groggy from sleep, I sit up on the edge of the bed and bow my head, a smile on my face. Thank You, Lord, for this day. Please guide me so I use it according to Your will. Amen. After stretching, I grab my phone and notice an unread text message notification on the screen.
With a yawn, I open it up and cringe when I see a message from Larry.
Larry: I can forgive you for hanging up on me yesterday, given our interactions recently. But I really do intend to get you to go on a date. People don’t tell me no : ) And I will wear you down. Talk soon.
“No,” I say out loud as I delete the message. “No, no, no. Absolutely not.” I continue repeating it as I all but stumble toward the kitchen to make some coffee.
After that, it’s breakfast. I completely skipped eating last night since it took all of my energy to shower and climb into bed, but my stomach is already growling for sustenance.
Unfortunately, I haven’t been grocery shopping in who knows how long, and aside from coffee, I only have a bottle of cream in the fridge.
So coffee, food, then all of the errands I’ve been putting off.
So.
Many.
Errands.
Starting with the insane number of suits and skirts I need to drop off at the dry cleaners. As I’m walking toward the kitchen, a manila envelope on the floor catches my eye.
“What are you doing there?” I ask aloud as though it can answer me. Did it fall out of my briefcase? But when I glance over at where I left that near the door, it’s still closed.
So how did it get there?
The way it’s positioned, it could have been slid beneath the door, so before I open it, I head into the kitchen for plastic bags to use as makeshift gloves.
It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gotten a death threat to my house, and with the high-profile case I just won, it certainly wouldn’t be surprising.
I could call the police and wait for them to open it, but if I do that and it’s not a threat, I’m going to feel absolutely ridiculous.
After slipping my hands into the plastic bags, I gently press down on the envelope to check to see if there are any strange bulges. When there are none, I lift it and undo the metal clasp keeping it closed.
Once it’s open, I turn it upside down on the counter, and a single sheet of paper falls out. I set the envelope aside and turn the page over to reveal a photograph. The moment my gaze settles on the image, my stomach twists into knots, and my heart begins to pound.
Abandoning the makeshift gloves, I rush toward my front door and rip it open, looking for any sign of the person who might have left it. When I don’t see them, I grab my keys off the hook and race out without bothering to lock up as I sprint down the steps.
Taking them faster than is probably safe—especially on bare feet—I race out onto the street. Horns honk as people rush to get to wherever they’re going, but there’s no one lingering.
No one standing around, staring at my building.
No people who look like they left in a hurry.
Only me, wide-eyed, standing in the frigid December air in nothing but a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.
Swallowing hard, I turn and rush back inside, taking the steps two at a time until I’m sure my heart is going to beat right out of my chest. After pushing back into my apartment, I remain near the door, staring in the direction of the photograph.
Ten years, and not a single clue.
Ten years with everyone telling me I was crazy.
Breathing ragged from my mad dash outside, I approach the counter slowly as though the photograph is going to come to life, calculating each step until I’m staring down at it once more.
My husband is standing across from a man in a solid white suit. They’re shaking hands, and Paul is smiling. His eyes are shielded by dark glasses, but there’s no mistaking him. Not when that smile is what drew me to him in the first place.
He looks like he’s at an airfield of some kind, which isn’t surprising, given he was a pilot, but I can’t see the face of the man he’s talking to.
The words The truth starts in Seattle are scrawled along the bottom of the photograph, written in black marker.
The truth starts in Seattle.
My heart leaps into my throat, and my hands tremble when I bend down and lift the photograph, no longer caring if my fingerprints get on it.
The truth.
With sickening clarity, I realize that I was right.
This whole time, I was right.
His death wasn’t an accident. And finally, I have proof.
“There are no fingerprints aside from yours,” Carly says as she offers me back the photograph.
“Thanks. I figured as much, but thought it would be a good idea to have it checked anyway.”
“Sorry, sweetie. I wish I had better news for you.”
“That’s okay. Thanks again.” I slip the photograph back into my briefcase then run my hands over my face.
“You doing okay?” Carly Prescott has been one of my closest friends since my family and I moved to Boston. While she went into law enforcement and eventually focused on crime scene analysis, I went on to prosecute the people she helps put away.
We used to joke that it made us a team of superheroes off saving the city, one bad guy at a time.
“Yeah, I’m okay. It’s just—this is the first time I’ve had any kind of evidence that supported my belief that Paul was murdered.”
“I know. It’s huge.”
“Yet, it leads nowhere.”
“Not nowhere,” she says. “Seattle.”
“Somewhere Seattle,” I say softly.
She takes a seat at the table across from me. “What are you going to do?”
“I booked a flight out for tomorrow morning. I need to see if I can find this place.”
“Are you going to ask one of the guys you know? The Hunts?”
I shake my head. I’d considered calling Tucker Hunt or Elijah Breeth for help.
They’re both computer whizzes I’m sure could help me narrow down the location of this.
But both men have young families to care for, and the last thing I want to do is drag them into this.
Especially when I have no idea what’s waiting for me.
“There’s a detective I know who works in Seattle. I’m going to see if he knows first. Maybe do some digging myself. If I can’t find anything, then I may call in the reinforcements.”
“Hold up.” She sets down the coffee mug she’d picked up. “Are we talking about a certain detective you went on a date with a few years back?”
“One and the same,” I reply.
“I thought he was—and I believe I’m quoting you here—‘arrogant and self-absorbed’?”
“He’s a great cop,” I reply. “Whether or not our date went sideways is irrelevant.” I won’t admit to her that I’m actually excited to see him again, even if it’s in such crummy circumstances. There was this spark between us, and I’ve never been able to forget it.
Not after our terrible first date or in the two years of no contact since.
“Uh-huh.” Carly picks up her coffee again and takes a drink. “Do you want some company? I can take a few days off.”
“Nah. I’ll let you know if that changes, but right now, I think it’s better if I go alone.”
“With super cute detective man backing you up.” She grins at me, and I roll my eyes.
“A professional visit. He’s the only cop I know out there and the only one I’d trust to look into this.” That is, if he agrees. It’s entirely possible I’ll get out there and he’ll tell me to get back on the next plane and go back to Boston.
Every P.I. I’ve hired to investigate his death has done the exact same thing. Shown up with a sad look on their face and told me, “Sorry, there’s nothing. Here’s the bill.”
I got so tired of failing that I put it on the back burner, and now, here I am. Over a decade later. Finally with some proof that I’m not crazy.
“What are you going to do if he doesn’t agree to help?”
“Then I’ll go to the Hunts. Either way, I’m not letting this one go. Someone out there has answers, Carly, and I want them.”