Chapter Thirty-one
I wake up to late-morning sunshine streaming on to the bed and flop my arm over, noting how messy the covers are …
Right. Liam slept over. Like a mini carousel in my head, images from last night flicker through, bringing the ghosts of sensations. The way Liam kissed me. The feeling of his chest pressed against mine. The torrent of pleasure that man coaxed out of me—
I could use a repeat.
I crane my neck to see the time on my bedside alarm clock.
Seven thirty. Meaning I need to leave for work in forty-five minutes.
It’s hard to imagine going about business as usual today.
Picking up bodies and filling out paperwork like I didn’t just say goodbye to my friend yesterday.
Will life ever feel normal again? How long will it feel like I’m living with my chest blown open?
I roll out of bed, forcing all these grim thoughts to the side. First, coffee.
Still in my T-shirt and underwear, I pull my hair into a ponytail and pad into the main room to a most welcome vision. Liam, shirtless, working an espresso machine, the rich scent of coffee already in the air. He’s tamping the grounds down, the muscles in his back flexing.
I take a minute in silence to admire the view.
‘Coffee?’ he says without turning around.
‘Please,’ I say in my raspy morning voice, returning to my perch on the counter next to the purse-disaster I spilled out yesterday.
‘Turns out you had a new-in-the-box espresso machine under your sink.’
I chuckle and yawn. ‘Oh yeah … my parents gave it to me. I think it was their “sorry we’re moving to Florida” gift? I should have set it up, but it seemed complicated …’ … and I forgot I owned it …
He raises an eyebrow and flicks a button on the machine, as if to demonstrate how perfectly simple it is. It rumbles to life, then spews a rich, dark stream into the waiting mug.
‘I was about to make eggs too, if you’d like some.’ He turns off the machine, pours foamed milk into the coffee and finally turns toward me, grinning.
I have to laugh as I accept the mug. ‘I love your eggs, but you’re going to spoil me.’
‘Spoil?’ He snorts. ‘It’s breakfast, Margot. This is basic. You just wait until I actually spoil you.’
My body warms as a few ideas of how I’d like to be spoiled flit through my brain.
As Liam makes his cup of coffee, I take a teensy sip of mine.
Oh, fuck, that’s good. Why the hell have I been drinking instant all these months? I owned a coffee machine this whole time! I want to be a freaking coffee shop owner! What have I been doing?
Surviving, my mind supplies.
‘How’d you sleep?’ he says.
‘Like the dead. You?’
‘Restless. I’ve been up since five.’ He runs a hand over the rough stubble on his face.
‘Oh, wow.’
‘I hadn’t considered it might be a serial killer until you mentioned the other victims last night.’ He crosses his arms and leans against the counter. ‘I’ve been looking into the influencer – Brooke Walsh.’
‘Found anything?’
‘Plenty. She’s all over the internet. But nothing noteworthy. And no apparent connection with the other victims.’
After another sip of coffee, I say, ‘I should probably fill you in on some stuff. I just found out that Zoe’s two paintings are portraits of the first two victims.’
‘Whoa.’
‘Yeah.’ I quickly recap my conversation with Colby and what I saw in the video she shared.
‘What motivated Zoe to paint them?’ muses Liam once I’ve finished.
‘She painted them after they disappeared. So maybe she was drawing attention to victims of violence? Which made her a target somehow …’ I pause. ‘Why did you buy her painting, by the way?’
Liam shakes his head. ‘It was just so powerful. It spoke to me. And then Simon offered me an insane discount … I was going to hang it in my living room, but only once I succeeded in reuniting Zoe with her parents. As a kind of reward for myself.’ He exhales. ‘Stupid.’
‘Not stupid,’ I say softly.
We’re quiet for a moment as he refills his coffee.
When he turns back around, his gaze is serious. ‘I’ve looked at the timeline between victims, and if Brooke is connected, she could still be alive.’
‘I know.’ I frown. ‘But is she connected? Zoe didn’t paint Brooke. And Brooke is married. The others weren’t.’
‘It’s still worth following that thread.’
I tap my fingers on the counter. ‘Or, do you think there’s an influencer angle here? I mean, Brooke was one. Zoe was kind of one, with her art? And Crystal, with her BDSM?’
‘Kayleigh, though.’
‘Pro life influencer?’ I try, then shake my head.
‘Yeah, that’s a stretch,’ Liam agrees.
I draw up a knee and sip my coffee. Each of the victims was outspoken. Each had such a strong viewpoint – but their viewpoints don’t seem to have much in common. Is the connection about suppressing women’s voices?
‘I need to get to work soon,’ I say with true chagrin.
‘I told you, call in sick,’ says Liam gently. ‘In fact, I insist on it.’
Yesterday I felt resistant. But today, I see it clearly: I haven’t been taking care of myself for a long time. It’s time to start.
‘You know, I think I’ll call out sick for the rest of the week.’ As soon as I say this, I feel lighter. After all, I am sick. Heartsick.
Liam gives me a smile of approval. ‘Thattagirl. And I’ll get those eggs started.’
‘Let me just make the call,’ I say, and step back into my bedroom.
The deed is quickly done, and Bill is very understanding, but before I can hang up, Bill says,
‘By the way, I wanted to apologize for yesterday. Devin found the ashes. They were still in the storage area in an identical urn. Easy to see how the mistake was made.’
After we disconnect, I just stand there for a second. I should feel relieved. One less problem. But … a mistake with the urn? I press a finger into my left temple and massage vigorously as I return to the kitchen, where Liam has located the eggs and the bread.
‘You look worried.’ He flips up the top on the egg carton even as he steals glances at me. ‘Everything OK?’
I huff out my breath and rub my forehead. ‘Kind of. I got the rest of the week off. But something happened yesterday with Zoe’s ashes. After the memorial, they weren’t in the urn. Bill kind of freaked out. But apparently they just turned up in the storage closet.’
‘All’s well that ends well?’
‘Yeah.’ I lift my coffee mug, noticing I’m nearly at the bottom.
‘It’s just, the urn was labeled. I labeled it myself.
’ I shake my head slowly, then more vehemently, and set my coffee back down.
‘Something’s off. Someone must have put the ashes from her foot into a different container.
And who knows where the other bag of ashes ended up … ’
‘Why would anyone do that?’
‘Literally no idea.’
Liam pulls out the only skillet I own and clanks it on to the stove. ‘You know, you can’t test ashes for DNA.’
‘Uh …’
‘Just a thought.’
‘Sorry, I’m not following.’
He tosses a nub of butter into the skillet and turns on the flame. ‘Yeah, it’s probably nothing. But the thought did cross my mind that maybe it wasn’t that her ashes moved from one container to the other. Maybe someone did steal them …’
‘And the ashes that just turned up belong to someone else?’ I complete, beginning to understand.
He shrugs. ‘Might be nothing. Probably my overactive PI brain.’
I can feel the pulse in my neck beating uncomfortably.
‘Devin is in charge of cremation,’ I say. ‘He could easily have scooped some ashes from someone else’s remains and put them in the second urn.’
Liam tilts his head. ‘So you think it’s Devin?’
Suddenly it hits me – was he at the memorial? He and Zoe were friends. But I don’t remember seeing him there.
‘I don’t know. He had the opportunity. But why? What motive?’ I pause, then answer my own question. ‘A killer’s trophy comes to mind. But I can’t see Devin as Zoe’s killer.’
‘Why not?’ Liam rummages in the fridge and comes back out with grated cheese.
‘When I brought Zoe’s foot to the crematory, he threw up. If his stomach is that sensitive, it’s hard to imagine he could handle killing someone and dismembering them.’
Liam pops two pieces of bread in the toaster, then cracks eggs into a bowl. For a while, I let him work in silence, since obviously him beating the eggs gives me a whole forearm show.
Before I know it, we’re eating the fluffiest, most buttery scrambled eggs ever.
‘Would have been better with some chives,’ Liam says with true regret. ‘But …’
‘I know.’ I laugh. ‘My fridge is a graveyard for fresh food.’
‘You can say that again. If we ever move in together—’ He cuts himself off and blushes. Obviously he didn’t plan on saying that.
‘Yeah?’ I say, my heart fluttering.
He runs a hand through his hair with an apologetic grin. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to get ahead of myself.’
‘No, I like it,’ I say. ‘You cook, I’ll do the dishes. And I can do laundry. But I hate cleaning bathrooms.’
His grin widens. ‘I will happily do the bathrooms. How do you feel about floors? If I vacuum every couple days, will that drive you crazy?’
‘Are you kidding? I’d love that. You can do the decor too. You have quite the eye.’
He looks me up and down. Greedily. ‘I do have an eye for beauty, that’s true.’
Now I’m blushing.
‘Well.’ He gives me a pleased little smile. ‘Sounds like we’re a match made in heaven.’
‘This half of the match needs a shower,’ I say, sniffing at my own armpit. Maybe the shower will have the added benefit of bringing some clarity to my jumbled thoughts. Ashes. Art. Four women with strong viewpoints. Zoe, lying about her childhood. There’s a story here. I just can’t see what it is.
Liam cleans up breakfast while I disappear into the shower. I’m just rinsing out the shampoo when Liam cracks the door and calls in, ‘Hey! I’m headed out. I have a few things to take care of. See you later?’
I stick my face out from behind the shower curtain.
‘You’re leaving?’ The words are all the way out of my mouth before I realize how pathetic I sound. Of course, he has a job – and a life.
His voice is tender. ‘Just for a few hours. There’s actually a lead I want to follow up on. Let’s plan on meeting up for dinner. There’s a taco place near my condo; I swear it’s one of Chicago’s best kept secrets. We could talk about the case over good food.’
‘And make more plans for our domestic future?’ I whisper, beckoning him closer.
‘Sounds perfect.’ He gives me a peck on the lips, then peers behind the curtain and gives my body a long, ardent look. ‘I’m so tempted to join you …’
‘Tonight,’ I promise. It’s only when I hear his footsteps retreating that I call out, ‘What lead?’ but there’s no response. He’s already gone.