Chapter 13 Robin #3
Phin reaches down to pick up the bottle of bubbly, dumping his flute on the grass and keeps his chin high as he looks down at him. “No need to protect him, rockstar.”
Bran rolls his eyes, puts the guitar down and pushes to stand, as I watch in worry at the way he takes the base of the champagne bottle and tips it to his lips, head thrown back.
He drains the entire thing, raising an eyebrow in challenge as he wipes his lips with the back of his hand.
The air is thick with tension and thankfully Bran just shakes his head, taking off after his brother once he’s whispered something to Mavis on the rug.
“I know you’re upset, but you don’t need to act like that.” I sigh, brushing my palm over the long strands of grass.
He just shrugs. “Did I want to sit out here where I spent time yesterday puking my guts up? No. Sometimes you just have to get on with your shit.”
I don’t look up as he dumps the bottle on the grass and heads in the direction of the house, but at the last minute he turns off into the tree line, which will take him around the house to the out buildings.
I know one of us should possibly go after his swaying ass, but some time alone in the woods could sober him up enough to not act like a total dickweed.
“Do you think one of us did it?” Mavis’s concerned curiosity brings my attention away from his retreating form, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip.
I don’t reply straight away, but Cardinal does. “I think anyone is capable of anything if given a strong enough reason.”
That's something I can agree with, but the idea of any guest here this weekend being responsible is ludicrous.
“What do you think your secret is?” I aim at him, because that’s what this comes down to.
Unless someone knew of Corbin’s whereabouts this weekend and came onto the property to murder him, the only other option is one of us here is a killer.
Unsure which fictional detective said it first, but the obvious answer is usually the right one.
The secrets had to be connected somehow; it couldn’t be a coincidence.
Shuffling his feet outstretched in front of him, he looks down.
“I think my secret will be something stupid from when I was younger. I was part of an elite sports team and well, we all had the lads will be lads mentality. A lot of people let us get away with stuff because we were just having fun, or because of our family name.”
My lip curls at the thought of grown men being allowed to do what they want, but it’s Willow that answers.“That’s disgusting.”
”Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“How would Corbin know about that stuff though?”
“Aya could have told him, or Father. They seemed cosy when I saw them together—like it wasn’t the first time they’d had meetings. He could have spoken about those days, or just wanted to brag.”
“Would he have written one of her secrets too?” I ask, unable to contain the thought. We share a look and both don’t have to answer.
“It doesn’t matter how he got the secrets, they’re out there and we need to find them before the detectives do.
” Mavis' tone is nonchalant, and I’m surprised she's the one joining in with our conversation. Willow swings her dark hair into Cardinals face, standing and I think she even pops out her hip on purpose to make sure he notices her bum. He doesn’t even hide looking, but curses under his breath and returns to looking utterly furious at being with us.
Grabbing the empty bottles, she says goodbye to only Mavis and Jay, leaving our weird unit of misfits to stare off up at the house.
“Finding the clues is really hard.” Jay mutters, reminding me that Cardinal in fact found a new secret. Like he can read my thoughts, when I look up to where he’s perched alone on the sofa, he already has the curled piece of paper to hand.
“Knock yourself out Drew.”
Taking it with both hands, I smooth the curling edges out, reading the typed letters.
Looks like Gatsby has been selling stories to the press. Poor MR Wilson.
I cringe. “Willow wouldn’t have actually done that? Sell stories about Wren when she was with him?” I ask, turning to look at Mavis because she knows her better than either of us. No wonder he’s never wanted to date, not if they could sell his personal information like he means nothing.
“I mean, technically they never dated. It was just one time.” She defends, but winces as she looks down at where Bran left the guitar on the grass.
Her short silver strands swayed as she shakes her head, but I can see the disappointment in her eyes.
She knew her best friend was capable of something like this, but it sucked to have to face reality sometimes.
Jay pats her thigh in what looked like a comforting gesture, but she quickly shuffled away from his touch.
My brows furrow and something close to panic flashes in her eyes, like a rabbit caught in a snare.
“I don’t think we should tell him.” Jay shrugs, and I can’t quite believe this is coming from one of his friends.
“Seriously?” I ask and he just shrugs again.
“It’ll only cause an argument and I don’t think I can deal with either of them trying to kill each other.” That we can all agree with, but I still don't commit to not telling Wren the truth.
Crumpling up the paper, I let it fall onto the rug and get to my feet as the others do.
I have no idea what the guys had originally planned for today, but maybe I can help ease the tensions by offering to help with lunch, or even find Phoenix to help sober him up.
He’ll no doubt sulk about snapping and upsetting his boyfriend, but what I don’t want is for him to spiral out in the forest when he could be with his support system.
“Do you believe in redemption? That if someone’s not too far gone, they can be redeemed?”
I turn to Cardinal and see a glimpse of vulnerability in his expression, which I’m unsure I was meant to see.
Letting both Mavis and Jay walk ahead to the patio, I run my fingers across the pleats of my dress.
I want to shrug and tell him I think a person can, but the only man I’ve known in need of redemption, was already so far into the distance of darkness, it was too late to do anything to help.
His question worries me, causing my throat to feel tight. “Cardy, what did you do?”
He doesn’t answer me, but instead continues like I hadn’t asked what his deepest secret could be. “I think they can. I’m not a good man by any means, I’m really not. Every day I try to do better. Surely that has to count for something?”
I nod, because maybe the acknowledgement of wanting to be better does count
A small smile tugs at his lips for the second time this morning, but he firmly presses them together.
“We should make you a murder board.” He surprises me, continuing before I can ask why in the world I’d need to put one together.
“Starling and Goldie are asking a lot of questions about you. It’d make me feel better knowing you’ve got the upper hand or at least a suspect in line. ”
Ignoring the pending anxiety squeezing at my organs, the crime author in me screams that statistically murders are committed by someone the victim knew. Spouses, family, friends. Ex partners. Of course I'm a suspect but they're just doing their jobs.
“Ok, in honour of the murder board. Where were you Friday night and the following morning?”
He tucks his hands away into his pockets. “On Friday—after the party ended, I tried to find my sister but now I assume she’d already left. I had a nightcap in one of the bars, before heading to bed.”
“What time?” I quipped, like I was ticking mental boxes with his answers. An actual damn smile creeps onto his lips and he covers it with the side of his fist.
“I didn’t hear anyone around so it must have been after you headed up.” His smile fades, and I know he's aware of my unwanted guest.
Shaking the feeling of being cornered, I continued. “Where were you Saturday morning?”
“I got up at six and went for a run. I can’t break my morning habits or it’ll throw off my day.
I ran down to the lake. Across the shore for a little bit and wound back up into the trees.
I don’t think I left the property, but there were more buildings on the opposite side of the woods.
After grabbing some breakfast, Merle came downstairs and told me to come with him to your little meeting this morning.
” From that point he was around other guests and by how blue Corbin’s body was, I could make an uneducated guess that he’d been hit over the head way before we’d all gotten up that morning.
I wished so bad I had my phone to google the stages of decomposition hour by hour after someone dies; probably not the best thing to do if the detectives looked over my search history.
“Ok. Good to know.” I say, trying to mentally store the information so I can write it down later.
Was I really going to do this? Try to work out what the hell happened so I could have a rebuttal for when they no doubt started to suspect me.
They could form an incorrect narrative against me, but not if I could provide not only proof of my innocence, but a real suspect.
The only problem I could think of was I had no idea where to start, no guest jumped out at me as particularly murdery.
I know I had created both Detective Featherton and the crime solving pensioner from my imagination, but maybe I needed to take a page from their book and grab life by the balls.
No way would Thistle let a pair of detectives come into her home and ask her friends damning questions about her whereabouts.
She’d stick them the middle finger and solve that crime herself.
Featherton on the other hand, well, he’d never be put into a situation like that in the first place.
He was the stability of such a firecracker that was Thistle.
I’d actually found inspiration for her character when I met Maggie.
She could be cleaning down a table and telling a story about how she wrestled a shoplifter in the village post office that same morning.
Her stories had stayed with me the entire time I wrote my debut, so to see her this weekend was comforting despite everything.
Approaching the house, it’s only when we’re close to the patio steps that I even notice Wren’s tall figure stood in the shadow of the conservatory, the bifold doors exposing the house to the elements.
Dark curls fall over one eye and he pushes it back with a toned arm, the rest of his muscles defined under his tight black t-shirt.
Even his tattooed legs looked great in a pair of shorts and black converse, just another reason I need to not look at him for too long.
I understand completely why women and men throw themselves at him, because I’d be drooling right now if I wasn’t trying to stay away.
Whilst I hid out in my hotel room this morning, I came to the conclusion we just wouldn’t work, even if I did give him a chance.
Even if I’d pushed into the public eye with my best seller, it could never compare to his fame.
Did I want that life? I never had when the media was relentless in my childhood, so why would I now?
Green eyes flutter to meet mine and I feel the magnetic pull of them try to drag me in. He doesn’t stop looking at me as he speaks to someone I can’t see, but I hope it’s Phin. I think I imagine the dark look that flickers across his features.
“Why is he so fucking intense?” Cardinal asks, retreating back into a familiar annoyed tone. I don’t think it’s a facade, but it was nice to break him out of his brooding for even a short amount of time.
I shrug. “Who knows. Global warming does that to you.”
“You’re ridiculous.” He retorts, leaving me to stop at the bottom of the steps.