Chapter Eight #2
“I understand,” he said in response to her statement, “you feel the need for closure or perhaps for some sense of peace about what happened with Painter. But we need to proceed with caution when it comes to his sudden reappearance. We have no sense of his intent where you’re concerned.
At this point it’s not clear if he was held against his will or if he was in hiding and is now pretending to have been a prisoner.
” Owen might be guessing on that aspect, but it was a valid possibility.
“You’re right, of course.” She frowned, then nodded as if needing to convince herself.
“I would very much like to have some sort of closure, but until we understand how this happened at this particular time, I agree that it’s not a good idea to barge into the situation.
” She scoffed. “After all these years and all I went through, I feel like punching him in the face…or worse. Still, I really am worried that the ones he double-crossed will show up. His friends were not the type to forget, much less forgive. Not that he deserved to be forgiven.”
Owen smiled. “I would suggest that you not comment on your personal feelings when the reporters and Lambert start throwing questions at you.”
She laughed. “I assure you, I will not comment.”
The sound of her laugh made him smile. “Good.”
“You cooked,” she said, standing, “I’ll clean up.”
“I’ll help,” he insisted. It would give him something to do other than watch her.
For a while, they worked without speaking. The sound of clattering dishes and running water filled the silence. But there were things he wanted to know about her. Things that had nothing to do with the investigation. He ignored the urge for as long as possible.
“You must love reading,” he commented.
She looked up at him, her hands sudsy. “I do.” She shrugged and turned her attention back to the task of scrubbing the pan he’d used.
“There was a time when I thought I would be a writer.” She laughed and shook her head.
“I was going to write the next great American novel. But I quickly realized I am not a writer. I love books and I love reading, but I’ll leave the creating to those born with the talent. ”
The change of subject lightened the mood considerably. He confessed, “I don’t always have as much time to devote to reading as I’d like, but I do enjoy a good mystery from time to time.”
“Mysteries, romance… I love it all. My hope is to prompt that love in my students. Sometimes all it takes is reading the right book to ignite that love.”
“I’m sure you’ll be a great teacher.”
She passed the pan to him and stared out the window, her hands resting on the counter since there was nothing more to wash. “That’s if I get through this mess without ending up in prison.”
He set the pan aside and put his hand on hers, gave it a squeeze. “The Colby Agency is not going to let that happen.”
She turned her hand up and entwined her fingers with his, her gaze searching his face before settling on his eyes. “Thank you. I can’t imagine going through this without you. And the agency,” she hastened to add.
He managed a smile, when what he really wanted to do was lean down and kiss her. He sensed that she badly needed to be kissed. “I am really grateful I was the one chosen to help.”
As if she, too, felt that sizzle of attraction, her gaze dropped to his lips. But then she looked away. “I should get prepared for the meeting with Detective Lambert.”
Her fingers slid from his, and she hurried away, disappearing up the stairs.
He finished in the kitchen, taking his time in an effort to distract himself.
Whatever Lambert and his team had found that they hadn’t shared so far, Owen was determined to keep Leah safe and ensure she walked away from this situation unscathed.
He didn’t have to wonder whether she was innocent.
His instincts had never steered him wrong, and he was one hundred percent certain she was the victim in this twisty business of betrayal.
He suspected they might never know all the details unless they found Isla Morris alive.
But that was the problem. At this point, with Douglas dead…the prospect of finding her alive was growing dimmer and dimmer.
Chicago Police Department
Addison Street, 10:10 a.m.
LEAH REMINDED HERSELF to breathe calmly, evenly, though it was immensely difficult to do either.
Panic nipped at her, wanted to rise and spread through her, but she fought it.
This was no time for a panic attack. She’d had a few in her life, and she certainly did not want to deal with that right now.
Owen sat beside her. He was calm and steady, the very things she needed to be. In truth, he was the one part in all this that prevented her from losing it completely. The reality of what someone had done to her was shattering.
As soon as they had arrived at the department—five minutes before the designated time—they were escorted to a conference room.
Leah couldn’t decide whether that was good or bad.
Were they meeting with others besides Lambert?
Owen had warned her not to talk or ask questions about the case while they waited.
Lambert or one of his colleagues could be listening.
Not that Leah had anything to hide. She was innocent in this bizarre chain of events.
Her supposed best friend, it now seemed, had set Leah up for her own personal gain.
Although she couldn’t see how Isla would be gaining anything—her name wasn’t on that insurance policy.
Leah was one of the beneficiaries. If she were charged with Raymond’s murder, it was unlikely she would receive a dime.
So how did Isla expect to gain anything? Certainly Raymond Douglas wasn’t going to.
Leah and Owen had not spoken in depth about this aspect of the case.
She guessed he didn’t want to go there until they had further confirmation that Isla was involved.
He likely wanted to spare Leah’s feelings.
At this point, she was so far beyond being upset that her longtime friend may have betrayed her that she wasn’t sure she could get past it even if it turned out Isla wasn’t involved.
The door abruptly opened, and Detective Lambert walked in.
He closed it behind him, so evidently this meeting would be only the three of them.
Leah relaxed just a little. Maybe this wasn’t as bad as she had feared.
Then again, assuming anything could be a mistake.
This eerie situation had taken several unexpected twists.
“Good morning.” Lambert sat down, his attention fixed on the open file folder in his hands. “Thank you for coming.”
“Good morning,” Owen said. “I would hope that by now you will have found the necessary evidence to clear Ms. Gerard.”
Leah stared at the man next to her a moment, hoped to God he was right. Then her attention swung back to the other man—the one who held all the cards, or so it seemed.
Lambert fixed his attention on her. “Your prints were found in the lake house. In several rooms.” He said this without preamble or explanation of why he thought the find was relevant.
“We were there,” Owen said. “We’re the ones who found the blood and called you. This was Leah’s first visit to the lake house. I would think that the number of prints found that matched hers was few, no matter how many rooms were involved.”
Lambert stared at Owen for a moment before turning back to Leah. “Mrs. Morris stated that you had been to the lake house many times with her daughter, Isla.”
“That is not true,” Leah responded. Owen had suggested she not answer any questions unless it was something very straightforward that they had already discussed. This one—a comment, actually—fit those parameters. He also warned her not to expand upon the most direct answer.
“You’re saying,” Lambert pressed, “that Mrs. Morris lied in her official statement.”
“What Ms. Gerard is saying,” Owen countered, “is that Mrs. Morris has never personally witnessed Ms. Gerard at the lake house. Her statement on the matter is mere hearsay.”
Exactly. Leah managed a deep breath. She was so glad she had been smart and let Owen answer that one. She would never have been able to come across so emphatic and logical. All the more reason she was incredibly thankful for this man.
She stared at him now. Maybe more than she should admit.
Lambert considered the open file in front of him once more. Leah wished she could read the words and clearly see the images on the pages, but she could only make out enough to be worried all the more. This thing just kept expanding.
“In your statement,” the detective said as he lifted his gaze to Leah, interrupting her worrisome thoughts, “from the incident at the restaurant, you said Raymond Douglas was being dragged across the floor and that there was blood on his temple, as if he had sustained a head injury.”
“Yes.” Leah bit her lips together to prevent saying more.
“Why couldn’t you see who was dragging him? That person was surely taller than the stainless steel table that blocked Douglas from view once he was pulled fully behind it.”
Leah waited for Owen to answer that one. She glanced at him. His full attention rested on the detective; the stony set of his jaw warned that he was losing patience.
“I visited the restaurant and viewed the window through which she witnessed the events that occurred in the kitchen that night,” Owen said.
“The only way to see between the two tables that stood perhaps eight feet apart was to be looking straight through the window in that swinging door. On the other hand, the only way to see the person dragging Mr. Douglas would have been for her to step to her right and lean against the door.”