Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hugo
I’m woefully unprepared when the six-year-old slips her hand into mine.
“Promise?” she asks, squeezing my fingers with a surprisingly tight grip.
I squeeze back gently. Her little hand is so fucking fragile.
“Promise,” I reply. “It was an accident. Nothing bad like that will happen to you or your mom and dad.”
Brooklyn Ng and I have been sitting side by side on the outdoor rug covering her neighbor’s front porch for almost an hour now.
Sometimes we talked. Other times, we practiced deep breathing.
I even got her to laugh when I asked whether criss-cross applesauce works better with the right foot or the left foot on top.
But the lightness on her face dims again. “What about Shadow?” Her lower lip quivers, and I motion for her to take another deep breath in. She does, and I do it along with her. We exhale in unison.
“Nothing bad will happen to Shadow either.”
At least I hope not. If anything does, that’s on me as the person who killed the cat’s owner last night.
“Maybe Mom will let me keep her,” Brooklyn says hopefully.
I turn toward Rhonda Ng, who’s been standing at the edge of her yard, hugging herself tightly as she watches me work with her daughter. Brooklyn let herself into Aaron McEwan’s house to return his escaped cat this morning and found him dead in his living room recliner. That’s also on me.
When Rhonda gives me a vigorous nod, I say to Brooklyn, “Do you feel up to finding her so we can ask together?”
She bounces to her feet and clings to my hand as we walk down the porch steps.
I use my height to block out as much of the police activity as possible.
When we reach her own yard, Brooklyn lets go of me and flings herself into her mother’s arms, but it’s an excited hug, not a frantic koala one. “Mom, can we keep Shadow?”
“Of course we can, sweetheart.” She kisses her daughter’s shiny black hair and hands her off to her husband, then says, “Thank you. So, so much.”
“You’re, uh, you’re welcome.” I adjust my glasses, not having to fake how flustered I am by the gratitude in her eyes, especially given my culpability in the now-dried tears on Brooklyn’s cheeks. Helping steady her nervous system and co-regulate her emotions was the least that I could do.
“Brooklyn’s been sneaking into Aaron’s yard to feed Shadow treats when she’s in her cat patio.” Rhonda gestures toward her neighbor’s backyard. “Shadow must’ve escaped somehow, and when she turned up on our doorstep this morning, Brooklyn went next door and…”
I should’ve double-checked the latch when I put Shadow in the cat run as I left early this morning, but I was too distracted by how well Quinn’s pheromone-laced gloves were working. Still, it was better for her to be loose in the neighborhood than trapped inside with her owner last night.
I glance at Brooklyn, who’s talking animatedly with her dad on the Ngs’ front porch swing.
“She seems okay right now, but she may have a few nightmares and be a little more clingy over the next few days,” I say. “If it lasts longer than a couple of weeks, don’t hesitate to reach out to me or anyone in the area who specializes in working with children.”
I pass her my business card, which she reads carefully before pocketing it.
“Of course. And thank you again.” She pulls me into a fierce hug, and I stand there, stiffly accepting it, before she joins her family and they all head inside, Brooklyn happily waving at me over her dad’s shoulder.
“Bye, Hugo!”
I wave back. “Bye, Brooklyn! Say hi to Shadow for me.” And thank her for not scratching my eyes after I framed her for a murder.
With a satisfied nod, I turn and stop dead in my tracks.
“Well, hello there, Dr. Mohr.”
I thought I was awkward with Rhonda Ng just now? It’s nothing compared to me unexpectedly running into Rue Bellamy in the wild.
Not just the wild. One of my crime scenes.
“Ah, hi. H-hello, neighbor girl.” I stammer. “What brings you here?”
Rue’s raised brows speak to my stupidity before her mouth does. “My job.”
“Ha. Right.” It’s still her working hours, and there’s a body in the house behind us.
When I arrived on the scene, I got so absorbed with Brooklyn that I just…
forgot all about Rue. I didn’t think I was capable of that.
It’s like the universe is punishing me for that lapse by dropping her in all her glorious, professionally competent glory right in my lap at the worst possible time.
“The bigger question is, what brings you here?” she asks.
That, at least, I can answer confidently.
“Mobile Crisis Response Team,” I say, my eyes falling to the credentials on the lanyard around her neck. She looks kissably serious in her official medicolegal death investigator photo. “The girl next door discovered the, uh, body.”
The confusion on Rue’s face clears.
“That’s right! It’s kind of funny that we’ve never bumped into each other like this before.”
She’s not wrong. If someone involved in a crime, accident, or natural disaster is in distress, one of us gets a call to assist. I’ve shown up at scenes to help witnesses, bystanders, victims, and one memorable time the burglar herself, but never once have I bumped into Rue.
I’ve also never responded to a crisis I created, so score two firsts for today.
Rue brushes her fingers over my elbow, “Do you have time to meet my partner?”
That light touch would get me to follow her anywhere.
She could introduce me to Dr. Phil or the ghost of Sigmund Freud or the man she met getting coffee this morning and now plans to marry, and I’d smile and shake hands with all of them to make her happy.
Of course, if she does ever introduce me to a fiancé, he’d better hope there’s not so much as a stray tibia to be found in his closet or he’ll end up fertilizing the roses outside of her house.
“Hugo Mohr,” she says when we reach the sidewalk in front of McEwan’s house, “meet Bart Washington.”
“Mr. Washington.” I shake the man’s slightly too-dry hand. “It’s a pleasure.”
He grunts. “It’s Bart.”
I smile my eager Dr. Mohr smile. “Bart, then.”
Bartholomew Washington. Sixty-one, thrice divorced, high cholesterol.
Born and raised in Chicago, looks like he’s never owned an iron.
Has been coasting toward retirement for the past decade and definitely since Rue came on board as his partner, taking on more than her share of their workload.
Rue never complains about the division of labor they’ve settled on, so I’ve let it go—for now.
Bart tucks his hands into the sagging pockets of his equally saggy suit coat. “The neighbor, huh? She’s told me about you.”
I try to read his tone for what those reports might have entailed, but his whole affect is too bored for me to pick up anything. “Great. That’s, uh, great,” I say as I shift my weight, not having to fake my discomfort when I imagine how Rue might’ve described me to her closest coworker.
“Let’s get on with it.” Bart pushes past us to shuffle up McEwan’s sidewalk. Rue gestures for me to walk with her.
“You were really good with that little girl,” she says as I shorten my strides to match hers.
My face heats at receiving an honest-to-god compliment from her. “How much did you see?”
“Breathing. Hand-holding. Whispering.” She bumps my arm with her shoulder. “You were adorable.”
“Adorable?” Why does my voice sound so strangled?
“Adorable,” she says firmly.
That euphoria morphs into excitement-laced dread as we approach McEwan’s front door, where my dream girl’s about to dig up all the details on his “accidental” death.
Rue’s brilliant. Will she see through my careful staging? And if she does, how will she react?
There’s a woman. I can’t talk to her the way I talk to you.
My confession to Morticia in Navarro’s bedroom has stalked me since Thursday.
Rue sees the man I am in the sunlight. Morticia sees who I am in the dark.
But what if someone saw all of me—the things I do to bad men in their kitchens and bedrooms and garages, yes, but also the roses and the routines and the PhD—and stayed?
I shake my head and let the fantasy bleed away. I decided a long time ago I’m not equipped to love someone. It’s the safe call. It’s the only call.
But the sun is out, Rue’s smiling up at me, and I don’t want to walk away yet.
“I told Brooklyn’s mom to call me if she has any ongoing problems after today,” I say before I can talk myself out of it. “And it might help if I could see…”
I let my voice trail off, half hopeful and half terrified.
Rue considers me with narrowed eyes before nodding.
“Yes. If you follow the rules.” She starts rummaging through her bag as we walk up the porch stairs, handing me supplies.
“Booties over shoes. Gloves on at all times. Touch nothing unless I say it’s okay.
Stay behind me, and no taking photos of any kind.
Oh, and you’ll need to sign the log. We keep a record of everyone who has access to the scene. ”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention when she mentions that last item. Then she bends at the waist to pull the plastic baggies over her shoes, giving me an uninterrupted view of her ass, and I’ll sign anything she puts in front of me because fuck.
Once we’re suited up and I’ve officially put my name on the scene log, Rue sets her bag on the porch and slips a camera on a strap over her head. “Okay, follow me.”
She starts narrating the instant we cross McEwan’s threshold.
“The deceased is Aaron McEwan. Fifty-seven, single, lived alone. Initial reports are that he died from carbon monoxide poisoning.”
I’ve often wondered how serial killers who don’t have chemistry-genius best friends get by. My job last night was to sedate McEwan, flop him in his favorite chair, stage the scene, grab the cat, and get the hell out. Quinn’s carbon monoxide–binding compound took care of the rest.
Let’s see how well we did.
“Is that why all the doors and windows are open?” I ask innocently.
“Yep.” She slides me a smile, and I hide one of my own. So far, this all fits the story I built.