Two #3
The woman was aloof. He’d give her that.
But that only added to her mystery. Sure, some of the guys on the force wanted to crack her code, hoping to wear an invisible badge of pride for figuring her out, but Trevor had noticed the small things they missed—the way she kept her fingers curled to hide the grime under her nails, the faint, dark smudges that never quite washed away, even on her best days.
Hardworking, skilled hands. That’s what Trevor saw when he caught those glimpses. Not delicate, but capable. Strong.
Trevor turned into an older neighborhood. This wasn’t the rough patch he’d grown up in, but a quieter area, where the pine trees stretched tall and the air felt a little cleaner.
“Home sweet home,” he said, pulling into the carport.
It wasn’t as grand as Helena’s place—now a charred husk—but it was his.
Paid for with long shifts and double shifts; a place where a man could put down roots.
Not that he had. He’d spent years caring for his mother, the woman who’d sacrificed so much for him.
He didn’t resent it, but it had left little room for anything else.
Helena looked out the passenger window, her dark eyes lingering on the peak rising above the rooftops.
“I like it. Such a pretty view of Pike’s Peak.
” She smiled, a flicker of warmth amid the chaos of the day, and he appreciated the grace of the gesture, the way she seemed to steady herself with small, quiet moments like this.
“Thanks,” he said, stepping out and letting Lark bound from the truck, the dog’s nails clicking against the concrete as she bolted for the side door.
He opened it, leading them into the small laundry and bath area that served as a side entry.
“I’ve done some work over the years. Still needs a few updates, but my free time’s slim. ”
Helena stepped inside, her eyes sweeping over the warm grays and cool blues, the sturdy wood floors and stainless-steel accents.
It was a clean, simple space—no clutter, no frills.
Just the essentials. He felt a strange pulse of vulnerability, letting her into his world like this, a place where he still felt his mother’s absence in the little things—a chair pulled out from the kitchen table, a half-finished cross-stitch tucked into a corner basket.
“I can show you to the bathroom.” He felt his cheeks warm, an awkwardness that surprised him. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman in his house, and the last time felt like a different lifetime.
“Thanks.” She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, eyes tracing the outline of the space.
Trevor nodded, his heart giving an odd, uneven thump as he stepped into the hallway.
The door to his mother’s old room was ajar, the bed still made, the quilt pulled tight across the mattress.
He hadn’t moved into it, even though it had a private bath.
It felt wrong, like an intrusion. Maybe one day, when he’d made peace with the fact that she wouldn’t be coming back.
“Bathroom’s down the hall. Towels under the sink. I’ve got a new toothbrush in the drawer.”
She offered a small, grateful smile before slipping into the bathroom, the door clicking softly behind her.
Trevor moved to the kitchen, fed Lark, then scrubbed his hands at the sink, the hot water biting into his skin, washing away the fire’s grime.
He cracked a few eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a fork as the steady hum of the refrigerator filled the silence.
He worked on autopilot, his mind drifting to a time when this house had been full of noise, his mother’s laugh echoing through the small living room, the smell of her cooking filling every corner.
By the time Helena returned, the omelets were plated, steam curling from the edges, the smell of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the faint, familiar scent of his shampoo clinging to her freshly washed hair.
She stood in the kitchen doorway, in sweats and a Lavender PD sweatshirt, her hair tumbling in loose, wet waves around her face.
His pulse kicked up, a visceral, unexpected reaction that left him feeling a little off-balance.
“You didn’t have to cook for me.” She brushed a damp curl behind her ear, looking suddenly unsure, her gaze darting to the plates then back to him.
“I don’t mind,” he said, setting her plate at the small kitchen table. “I was already cooking for myself. What’s one more omelet?” He forced a grin, trying to ignore the way his heart thudded against his ribs.
She hesitated as if perturbed, then crossed to the coffeepot, her bare feet padding softly against the tile. “Can I pour you a cup, too?”
“Sure.” He watched her as she poured, her movements slow and precise, like she was grounding herself in the simple act of pouring coffee.
He took the first bite of his omelet just as his phone rang. The screen lit up with Chief Keller’s name, and a cold thread of dread wound through his gut.
“It’s Chief Keller,” he said, flicking his thumb over the screen to answer. He set it on the table, pressing the speaker button.
“Trevor.” Keller’s voice crackled through the line, her tone firm but with a hint of the exhaustion that came from too many years on the force.
“The material found with the bones matches what Alicia Jones had on that night. And we had DNA on file…it’s a match.
The body in Helena’s crawl space is Alicia Jones. ”