Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Victoria pulled the blanket the EMT had given her tighter around her shoulders, but it was no use. She couldn’t get warm.
The heat in Thomas’s mansion was probably working normally, set to the temperature she usually found much too hot. She couldn’t tell. Cold seeped relentlessly through her limbs as she sat on the settee near the stairs in the entryway.
Thomas was gone.
She couldn’t believe it. And yet, she could. Hence, the grief—the early, denial stage of grief, Robert would tell her if he was there.
But no one comforting or helpful was there, only police officers who didn’t know Thomas, traipsing through his house. At least that meant they were looking for evidence of the person who had...done this. The word was hard for her to think, even in her own head. Killed him. Killed Thomas.
Her throat shrunk as tears filled her eyes again. Oh, Lord. I pray he came to repentance and faith in You before it was too late.
He had asked her about her Christian faith once, giving her the leeway despite job regulations to share the Gospel. But he had only said she’d given him a lot to think about.
What if—
“Victoria Weston?” A middle-aged man with brown hair and a mustache approached Victoria. His brown blazer instead of a police uniform indicated he must be higher ranking than the uniformed officers on the scene. “I’m Detective McCully. I understand you were the one to discover the body?”
The body. He had been Thomas Briscoe only yesterday. Last night. Even hours ago, depending on how long he had—
“Ma’am?” The detective’s gruff voice drew Victoria back to his decidedly unhappy expression as he looked down at her. “You found the body?” Impatience laced his tone.
“Yes.” She would get to her feet to avoid having him glower down at her, but he stood too close for her to do so gracefully.
“Since this is an unattended death, I need to ask you some questions.”
“Of course. And I’m sure you’ll want the timeline and details of what I saw for your investigation.” She looked at the empty hands he planted on his hips. Shouldn’t he be ready to take notes from her account of what happened?
“Investigation?” His already furrowed brow gained some additional lines.
“Of Mr. Briscoe’s death.”
“We’re not investigating, ma’am. This is an accidental death. We just need to dot the i’s and cross the t’s, and then you can go.”
“Accidental?” Alarm filtered through her, sending a tremor across her shoulders and into her arms.
“A slip and fall.”
“No.” Victoria started to shake her head slowly from side to side. “That can’t be.”
“He was an old man. Happens all the time.”
Victoria stared up at Detective McCully, trying to meet his gaze with a firm one of her own. “I’m a physical therapist, Detective. I understand the risks of age, balance, and limited mobility. And I can assure you he did not slip and fall by the mailbox.”
“I’d believe her, Detective.” The deep voice swung Victoria’s head to the right. Cillian stepped close to her, looking tall, handsome, and strong.
How had she not seen or heard him enter the house? The same way she hadn’t seen the detective or the other officers as she had sunk into grief and deep thought.
But she couldn’t possibly ignore him now, not with the way everything in her wanted to lean toward him. Or even to rise to her feet and sink into his arms, to depend on his strength for a moment. The call of an old habit when she’d been a lost, hurting girl.
“I came as soon as Racquelle told me what happened. Are you okay?” His gaze rested on her, genuine concern reflected in his dark eyes.
“And you are?” Detective McCully’s tone sharpened even more, as if he was annoyed by the interruption.
“He’s a coworker.” Victoria jumped to respond before Cillian. Who knew what shocking answer he might give, especially if he did intend to rekindle a romance.
“Cillian Doherty,” Cillian extended his hand to the detective, “clinical social worker with CareFull Home Health.”
McCully dropped the handshake quickly and returned his attention to Victoria. “I just need to confirm what time you arrived and found the body.”
“Eight fifty-six a.m.” Her mind cycled through the points she could make to show the detective Thomas’s death wasn’t an accident.
“And what did you do when you found the body?”
“I called 9-1-1 and felt for a pulse. There was none. Then I performed CPR, but I believe he was already deceased when I arrived.”
The detective gave a grunt, not confirming or denying her statement. “That’s all I need. You’re free to go.” He sent Cillian a suspicious glance, then turned and stalked away.
“There’s a man who needs to get out more.” Wry humor colored Cillian’s observation.
She stared at the detective’s retreating form. Should she go after him and try to convince him he was wrong about Thomas?
“You look pale. And cold.” Cillian suddenly squatted in front of her, filling the space far more effectively than the detective had. Heat from his body seemed to wrap around her. Or perhaps it was his gaze so close to hers, his eyes penetrating and intense.
His heat found the cold spaces inside her, tingling like sparks, sending energy and life to where she needed it. “You’re not okay.” His observation felt like a doctor giving a diagnosis after the patient had begun to heal.
“No.” She moistened her lips with her tongue. “They’re saying this is an accident.”
His black eyebrows lifted. “You don’t think it was?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You mean you think he was…” Cillian glanced around as if checking earshot, “murdered?”
She gave a small nod. “I know it sounds far-fetched, but I don’t believe for a moment that Thomas went out to get the mail and slipped. He would never have done that.”
Cillian studied her face, then stood. He didn’t believe her.
That shouldn’t sink her heart, disappointing her far more than the detective’s disregard.
“You’d better tell the detective before he leaves.”
Her gaze shot far up to Cillian. He did believe her. More warmth poured in behind her ribs, warming her all over. But it wouldn’t do for Cillian to have even an inkling that he still had such a powerful effect on her.
She pushed the blanket off her shoulders, letting it drop to the settee as she stood. Very close to Cillian.
She tilted her chin up from his chest to meet his gaze, trying to squash her skipping heartbeat and regulate her breathing despite the visceral response she apparently still had to him. “I was about to tell him before you interrupted.”
Cillian angled his head down toward her without moving any closer or farther away. His coal-colored eyes roamed her face, then paused…on her lips.
Her breath caught.
His mouth slowly tugged up at one corner. “Don’t let me stop you.” The flirty, amused twinkle in his eyes woke her up.
“I would never let you stop me.” The words spewed out with the irritation that flared in her stomach. She marched away, searching for the irascible detective.
Honestly. How could she have fallen under Cillian’s spell again, even for only one moment? Cillian Doherty was trouble. She knew that. She was mature enough that she shouldn’t be swayed by attraction, no matter how handsome he was.
And apparently, he thought she needed his prodding to speak with the detective.
He probably thought she was still the shy, quiet girl who’d followed his lead in everything.
Sixteen years of being the only mother figure to the strong-willed Weston siblings had cured her of all hesitation and timidity.
A brown blazer caught her eye near the front door. Detective McCully stood there, speaking with a female uniformed officer. Good. Victoria would have a chance to make her case.
“Detective McCully.”
He turned her way as she approached, his mustache following the deep frown of his lips.
No matter. She wasn’t trying to make a new friend. She was attempting to see that justice was done for Thomas. But she had to take the correct approach, or the detective would never listen to her.
She gave him a smile as she stopped in front of him. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I can tell you’re a thorough detective. I’m sure you would like to have all the facts related to what happened to Mr. Briscoe.”
The sound of a small grunt reached her ears, but she held on to her sincere expression, pretending she hadn’t noticed.
“As Mr. Briscoe’s physical therapist for the past eleven months, I would be willing to give expert testimony that he would never have walked out to the mailbox on his own to retrieve his mail.”
A smirk curved McCully’s lips. “This isn’t going to court, Ms. Weston. Like I said, it’s a slip and fall.”
She worked to keep her voice even. Showing her rising irritation wouldn’t help. “But my point is that he could not have been outside of his own free will.”
“Are you saying he wasn’t able to walk that far? Some physical disability?”
“Not precisely, no.”
The smirk grew.
She pressed on quickly before he could cut her off or leave.
“He fell and broke his hip eleven months ago, which is when I began to see him. He healed from the hip replacement but lost his confidence. His balance was fine, but he didn’t believe it was.
That’s the reason he wanted to continue physical therapy.
I was helping him with balance exercises, but they were mostly to improve his confidence, rather than compensate for a deficit in function. ”
Her senses heightened at the sound of footsteps over her shoulder. The tingling through her body told her who it was before she checked, spotting Cillian as he stopped by her side.
Her stomach twisted with sudden nervousness. Good grief, she wasn’t competing in a debate competition in high school. She was a professional, experienced PT giving her clinical opinion to a detective. If Cillian wanted to listen, that wouldn’t bother her.
The inner pep talk didn’t have the calming effect she’d hoped, especially when she caught the look of victory in the detective’s eyes.
“So you’re confirming he was capable of walking to his mailbox.”