“We were hoping you could tell us that.”
“Desmond, we’re just gathering some information,” Sylvie said now that Theo had established their roles. Desmond would view her as an ally while he considered Theo his enemy. “We learned that you and Rachel were engaged to be married.”
“I don’t know what Lindsay said to you yesterday, but?—”
“Lindsay didn’t even mention that you were going to marry her younger sister,” Sylvie admitted truthfully. “We came across the marriage application that you filed, but we noticed that you never picked up the license. Did Heather have anything to do with your decision not to go through with the wedding?”
“I don't have to answer questions about my personal life,” Desmond said, the defensive edge in his tone sharpening.
“You’re right, Mr. Brewer. You don't have to talk to us at all,” Theo said as he wrapped his hand around his smoothie and pushed his chair back, signaling the meeting had come to an end. “We’ll simply give Rachel a call and have this conversation with her instead. I'm sure she'll be willing to share her perspective on what happened between the two of you.”
Theo gave a small shrug, as if the matter were of little consequence to him.
“Desmond, we’re not accusing anyone of anything. We’re simply trying to piece together what might have happened eleven years ago.”
Desmond finally met her gaze directly, and what she observed there wasn't anger or deception. It was something more complex, like a wounded confusion coated with what might have been long-nursed resentment.
“Rachel thought I was in love with Heather,” Desmond finally admitted, the words emerging reluctantly, as if each one required individual permission to leave his lips. His gaze lowered to his hands. “She was wrong.”
This was the first genuine admission they'd extracted from him, and the emotional undertones suggested layers of unresolved conflict.
“Was she?” Sylvie asked softly, her question hanging in the space between them.
“Yes,” Desmond insisted, a spark of indignation appearing on his face. “Yes, she was. Did I believe that Heather was beautiful, kind, and funny? Of course. She was a wonderful person. Back when we were in high school, she never made fun of me for my love of baking, the way the other kids used to all the time. She was way out of my league, though. I knew it then, and I knew it eleven years ago. It’s funny, thinking back to that time. I didn’t think anyone else could be more insecure than me, but Rachel…”
“What made Rachel believe you were in love with Heather?”
“Anything. Everything,” Desmond admitted before clearing his throat. It was as if he were attempting to reset his demeanor. “When Rachel was in high school, she was in a bad car accident. The glass cut the right side of her face to the point where not even plastic surgery could erase the scarring. As I said, she wasinsecure with her appearance. If you feel the need to speak directly to her, go ahead.”
“Did Heather ever give you an indication that anything was wrong? In her personal life? Professional?”
“No.” Desmond’s expression had now turned to one of impatience. She might as well have asked why water was wet or why icing was made with sugar. “Heather came in here almost every morning, just like almost everyone else in town. I didn’t notice her acting strange or upset. Now, if that’s all you?—”
“What about Figg Whitlow?”
Theo’s question caught Desmond off guard. A frown creased his brow, the confusion in his expression now tinged with suspicion.
“Figg and Heather?” Desmond repeated, sounding genuinely perplexed. "I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”
“Did Heather have a relationship with Figg Whitlow?”
“We all went to school together,” Desmond responded, his uncertainty over the inquiry still evident. “Figg’s mom taught at the high school, so he couldn’t get away with too much back then. I remember that on his sixteenth birthday, his uncle bought him a tattoo gun. He started tattooing the other students during lunch period for five dollars, much to his mother’s disappointment. But Figg and Heather? She’s not his type.”
“So everyone keeps saying.” Theo hadn’t bothered to move his chair back in place, so he was able to cross his ankle over his knee without any issue. “What’s your opinion of him?”
Desmond's shoulders squared a little, and the way he narrowed his eyes signaled that he understood the underlying question.
“If you're suggesting Figg killed Heather, you're wrong,” Desmond stated firmly, his earlier confusion replaced by conviction. “You shouldn't judge a book by its cover. As I said, I've known Figg since we were kids. He might look intimidatingwith all those tattoos, and yeah, he's had his share of trouble, but he's a good person. Not someone who could hurt another.”
“We aren't asking about Figg because he likes tattoos or a certain type of woman,” Sylvie clarified, her tone matter-of-fact rather than accusatory. “We’ve recently learned that Figg and Heather may have had an argument in the weeks before her death. We're trying to ascertain the nature of that disagreement.”
“I don’t know anything about any argument.”
“Thank you for your honesty, Desmond.” Sylvie glanced around the bakery before meeting his gaze. “I know this is probably your busiest time, so we won’t keep you any longer.”
Her response seemed to surprise him. The tension that had been building in his posture throughout their conversation faltered, as if he'd been bracing for an attack that never came.
“That’s it? You don't have any other questions?”
