Chapter 2
Inside, it was a glorified, oversized junk drawer.
Before I bought the house, I’d been living in a small flat in town.
As soon as I’d moved in, my parents hinted that I might like to swing by the old family home, preferably in a rented van or pickup, and collect all the boxes and various items from my childhood and early twenties that they’d been storing for me while I didn’t have the space.
I was astonished at how much crap I’d accumulated over the years. I hadn’t listened about the van or pickup, and it took multiple trips in an overloaded car to bring it all over here, just when I’d thought I was done with the endless bother of moving.
I barely had the chance to catch my breath before my parents dropped the bombshell that they’d decided to sell the business to me and my sister, Amalie, and retire to Spain.
That surprise was quickly followed by Amalie running off to travel the world, and the garage had never made it to the top of my todo list.
All in all, I wasn’t going to beat myself up for not getting around to it until today.
Things had worked out wonderfully, anyway.
Now Kevin got to do it.
He stood in front of a stack of taped-up cardboard boxes, breathing heavily, with a Stanley knife in his hand and a focused expression on his face.
I eyed him. “You’re a freak,” I said.
“Yeah,” he grunted, not looking away from the boxes.
“Want me to bring you out a latte?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
Before I moved away, he hauled me close and up to my toes, bringing my mouth to his. He shoved his tongue in and kissed me like he was off to war. Then he turned me by the hips, patted me on the arse, and pushed me in the direction of the door, adding, “And a couple of biscuits, please.”
I shot him a squinty look over my shoulder but he was already focused back on the boxes.
I had only the vaguest idea of what was in them at this point. When he was still trying to convince me to let him at the garage, I’d told Kevin it would be easier to cram it all into the back of his Land Cruiser and drive it to the tip.
He’d gasped in outrage and informed me that there could be treasure in there.
Treasure.
Right.
He always trotted that one out when he wanted an excuse to be nosy and go poking around.
If ‘treasure’ meant broken lamps, old books, ancient laptops and maybe, if he was lucky, an iPod loaded up with mid-noughties emo band albums (and Britney), then he was in for a treat, I’d said.
Otherwise, it was going to be a disappointing experience.
Kevin didn’t care. Kevin wasn’t just passionate about fixing things. He was also passionate about recycling, upcycling, and sustainability. The tip was a last resort as far as he was concerned.
He had contacts at salvage yards, community repair cafes, charity collection depots, and recycling centres all over Oxfordshire.
If there was a chance something could be rehomed rather than destroyed, he’d see it done.
This had worked out well for Liam when he and his forensics team had to go running around the county trying to recover Deirdre’s stuff, which had become critical evidence in the Dollhouse Murders case.
Last I heard, they’d managed to get back almost forty percent of it.
As for whatever I wanted to keep, it would no longer be stored in sagging cardboard boxes, old suitcases, or reusable supermarket shopping bags.
I’d seen his project binder. Kevin had a vision.
The garage was destined to be rewired with new overhead lights and multiple power points.
The walls would be insulated, plastered, and painted, except for the wall facing the garden, which would be knocked out and replaced with glass, to make use of natural light and to zhuzh up the utilitarian vibe.
He was going to build a custom shelving unit from scratch to hold metal lockers, recycled plastic tubs, and archive boxes for all my storage needs.
There would be various racks and pegboards for hanging tools.
He’d choked up when I told him to go ahead and set up an area for his workbench, toolboxes, and anything else he wanted to store in there.
Leaving him to it, I went back to the house to fire up my Gaggia espresso machine and make his latte.
Phil heaved himself up off the picnic blanket as I passed and followed me in from the garden. He headed straight for his bed in the corner of the kitchen, where he flopped down with a happy groan.
All that napping in the sun must have tired him out, which was lucky for Kevin, or Phil would be in the garage with him, attempting to help.
I paused in the middle of getting the milk out of the fridge.
Had Phil ever been into the garage? I couldn’t remember.
Huh.
I’d acquired Phil along with the house, and he’d always point-blank refused to go upstairs where Deirdre, his murderous former owner, had stashed her collection of human dolls.
He still wouldn’t.
Ray sometimes babysat for Phil, and Phil wouldn’t go upstairs at Ray’s house, either. He also refused to go into Ray’s conservatory, which had (eventually) been built over the former resting place of a mummy dressed as a Victorian clown.
He was like a reverse cadaver dog. If a body was once there, Phil wouldn’t go near the spot.
But he’d been in the garage…hadn’t he?
Surely?
My stomach rolled uneasily. I couldn’t think of a single time that he had.
Well, it didn’t matter. Whether or not Phil had been anywhere near the garage was irrelevant. The police had.
There were no dead bodies in there, the only boxes were definitely mine, and there was no chance of Kevin finding anything that would bring the media down on our heads for a third time.
Absolutely no chance.
None.
Zero.
I finished making his latte, emptied half a packet of Hobnobs onto a small plate, slid the lot onto a tray, and carried it out to the garage.
In the short time it had taken for me to put together his snack, Kevin had dragged a heap of boxes to the centre of the uneven, gritty concrete floor.
He’d already opened a few, and as I walked in, he was on his knees, slicing open the packing tape on another one with a firm, precise stroke of his knife.
“How’s it going?” I said, coming to stand beside him. “Find anything interesting?”
“Mice,” he said absently as he retracted the blade and set his knife down.
I turned around and strode back out.
“Oi,” he called after me. “Get back in here.”
I paused at the door. “Are there mice?”
“…no?”
“Kevin.”
“There is evidence of mouse activity. No actual mice.”
I came back in.
“No actual mice that I’ve seen, anyway,” he added.
I froze midstep.
“Charlie.” He sat back on his heels, which did wonderful things for his quads, and fixed me with his soft brown eyes. He licked his lips. “I’m so thirsty.”
There was an equal chance that he was actually talking about his latte, or he’d wait until I got within snagging distance, and I’d find him on top of me.
I mean…
Either of those things was good for my ego. And as long as there weren’t any mice scampering around, I decided that it was worth the risk to find out what, exactly, he was thirsty for.
“Ta,” he said, reaching out as soon as I came into range.
He went for the latte.
I wasn’t disappointed.
He’d be on top of me later. Guaranteed. Kevin had an insane sex drive, and not a single day passed that he didn’t get on top of me.
My sex drive was significantly lower than his, but I didn’t have to want an orgasm of my own to enjoy him writhing around on top of me, or dragging his hot gaze all over me while he jerked off.
He inspected the leaf I’d drawn in the latte foam, gave me a sweet smile, and chugged it in three swallows.
“About these mice,” I said, looking around suspiciously as I put the tray with his plate of biscuits down on top of a box. “What kind of evidence are we talking here?”
“The usual.”
“What’s the usual?”
“Shit and the like.”
I grimaced. “Lovely.”
He poked through the boxes, then picked one up and stood. “Look. More evidence.” He angled the box to show me a nibbled hole in the bottom corner. Something inside it slid abruptly, and a small grey mouse fell out.
The mouse hit the concrete floor and galloped off into the shadows at the back of the garage.
I screamed.
“Holy shit,” Kevin said, staring at me open-mouthed. “Holy shit. How did you scream so high?”
I had no idea, but my ears were ringing. “Oh my god, no. No. I cannot handle vermin. That’s it. You’re on your own.” I turned on my heel and marched off.
He came after me and caught me before I made it out the door. He was laughing.
“Charlie. Come back.” He took my hand, pulling gently. “Charlie.”
I huffed and faced him with a glare.
He grinned down at me. “How can you be scared of mice? They’re so little. They’re so tiny. They can’t do anything to you.”
“Their size isn’t the thing that freaks me out.” It was their scampery little pink feet, and their fidgety whiskers, and their beady eyes.
“Hee hee.”
“We all have things we’re scared of,” I said. I’d heard Kevin scream before. He couldn’t hit my register, but when it came to volume, he had me beat.
“All right.” He patted my shoulder patronisingly.
“You’d have been the one screaming if there was a dead body in that box rather than a mouse. Although you couldn’t get a whole body in there, obviously. Maybe a head.”
Kevin paled.
I tried not to smile, but I didn’t do a very good job of it, because he gave me a look. “There are no dead guys in this garage,” I said. “Okay?”
“Yeah. I know.” He nodded again. Then he let out a short breath. “We’re sure, though. Right? Hundo percent sure?”
“Yes.” I put my hand on the side of his neck.
“You already took all of Deirdre’s stuff away.
” We both winced, remembering Liam’s reaction to that particular development in the case.
“We already know that the only boxes in here belong to me.” I’d verified it with Kevin when he and Griffin were clearing Deirdre’s stuff.
I’d verified it again with Liam when he’d run out of puff and stopped shouting.
“Yeah.”
“The only way there could possibly be a dead body in one of these is if I put it there myself.”
He’d been nodding along, but at that he stopped. His eyes narrowed.
“What?” I said.
They narrowed further. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Back when I found the first one in Ray’s house,” he began slowly, “and then Ray found one on his own…you remember how everyone started thinking that Ray was a serial killer?”
“Yes? And—” I gasped, snatched my hand off his neck, and slapped it on his chest instead, giving him a little shove. “Don’t you dare accuse me of being a murderer.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it.”
“I think lots of things about you, Charlie.”
“Sexy things! Not…not things like, I wonder if he’s a killer?”
“Not all sexy things, either,” he said. “To be fair.”
“Um?” I glared at him, eyebrows as high as they could go. “Care to expand on that?”
“Dunno. Doesn’t look like it would be a good move on my part, does it?”
“I doubt you can say anything that’s worse than, Are you a serial killer?”
“I didn’t say it. All I said was, people suspected Ray. And I was thinking, they never suspected you.”
“Of course they didn’t!”
“All right.”
“Why would they?”
“You’re taking this very personally.”
“Because my boyfriend just said people should have suspected me of being a serial killer. It’s hard not to take that personally!”
He tilted his head to one side. “Are we fighting?”
“No. I’m telling you off.”
“Mhm. I think you’re picking a fight. I never said people should have suspected you. I said that they never did. That was all. It was an observation. Maybe you should calm down.”
“I don’t believe I will.”
He shifted his weight. “I could make you calm down.”
“You absolutely can’t.”
“Sounds like a challenge. You get right chilled when I bang the sass out of you.”
“Historically, perhaps. You won’t be doing that today.”
“Won’t I.” He said it flatly, with no questioning inflection at all.
“You will not.” I took a step back, and froze when he mirrored it, stepping forwards.
We locked eyes.
The air in the garage was heavy with tension. My pulse picked up speed. I was willing to bet Kevin’s didn’t even skip a beat. He was in focus mode. Kevin in focus mode was truly terrifying to behold.
It blew my mind that most people would look at him and think, there goes Kevin Wallis. No imagination. Not much going on between the ears. Give him a kettlebell or a pint and he’s a happy boy.
Anyone who thought that was so, so wrong.
Kevin might look either cheerful or blank, but there was always something going on between the ears.
Half the time, he was assessing every single space he was in, wondering how he could fix it, improve it, create something out of it.
The other half, he was coming up with ways to make me scream or tease me into getting what he liked to call sassy with him.
One side of his mouth lifted in a smirk.
“You’re a dick,” I said, and bolted.