The car—a nondescript Uber I ordered for subterfuge—pulls up to the road, and I press a hand to the butterflies multiplying in my stomach. Realistically, I know there’s no one following me, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful. Paranoia, thy name is Catriona. My phone bleats out the sound of a call ringing and ringing, but Elizabeth doesn’t pick up.
Did I really think she would?
Sighing, I end the call and wish I had the magic words to convince her to help me. But the moment I showed her my makeshift murder board, she looked at me like I’d lost it. And maybe I have.
Six months ago, when I snuck into our old house where my mother died, I found her phone and spent weeks trying to break into it. Finally, I accepted defeat and began the arduous process of interviewing private investigators to help. Because I may be a lot of things, but I can admit when I’m in over my head.
Finding out exactly what happened that night is my number one priority, even if it costs me everything. Shoving away those worries to deal with later, I climb out of the Uber and give the driver a five-star rating before I study my destination: a small hole-in-the-wall bistro that no tourist would ever give a second glance. Which means it’s perfect.
Mr. Leonardo Broussard is the name of the private detective I finally settled on, and he comes here most afternoons for a pick-me-up coffee and a treat. It’s been months, and he’s finally combed through most of her phone. I’m full of warring emotions. Dread for what he’s found. Relief if there’s news to report. Anxiety it’ll be nothing, and I’ll have to start all over again.
The scent of yeast and coffee greets my nose as I stride to the entrance. It may be a hole-in-the-wall, but the vibes are excellent. Inside, the bistro is little more than a walkway between the massive counter and the opposite wall. There’s just enough room to squeeze in a few two-top standing tables, with more room for people at the counter. Most of the decor is sparse, but what the place lacks in design, it makes up for in quality, if the smell is anything to go by.
After a quick scan of the patrons, I realize Mr. Broussard isn’t among them and let out a sigh of relief. The moments I’ll have before he arrives will certainly help calm my nerves and let me go over the questions I have for him. I place an order for my favorite, a honey and lavender latte, and wait in a shadowed corner for him. The drink soothes my nerves so that when the bell rings over the door, I’m able to look up without flinching.
Mr. Broussard is an unassuming man. I recognize him at first glance because of his hair, or lack thereof. We met in person once before when I handed over the phone, and I’m struck again by the air of competence and sturdiness that surrounds him. According to his website, he’s a former lawyer—is that why I feelso at home around him?—who has been a private investigator for the past ten years. He’s the only one who didn’t immediately brush off my concerns, so it’s not like I had much choice.
I edge through the cloister of tables and patrons to his side just as he’s turning away from the counter.
“Miss Catriona.” He rocks back on his heels. “Have you already ordered? I can get us a table.”
“I have, but thank you.”
He gestures with his croissant to an empty spot. “Why don’t we take a seat, and we can discuss what I’ve found so far?”
Sinking into a chair, I wet my tongue with a piping-hot sip from my honey and lavender latte, though I barely taste it. “Thank you again for agreeing to look into this. If it weren’t for you, I was about to give up hope I’d find anything at all.”
His smile is a twitch under his mustache. “Of course,” he says, as he rifles through a leather messenger bag I didn’t notice he was carrying. He pulls out a thick notebook. “I like to keep it old school sometimes. I have notes of my findings here with me.”
“Probably safer that way, I imagine,” I ramble, as my heartbeat kicks up a notch.
“I was able to unlock your mother’s phone based on the suggestions you provided and some programs a friend of mine designed. Don’t ask me the details, they’re not really my specialty. We recovered a log of her calls, emails, and text messages. That would be these.” He passes me a folder of papers. “Going back for six months or so, to start. This is your copy.”
I swallow roughly and take the proffered file. Once the knot in my throat passes with a swallow from my drink, I say, “This is incredible, more than I hoped for. Were you able to look through them and see if anything stood out to you?” Cracking open the folder, my latte forgotten next to my elbow, I pore over the lines of data.
There are numbers I recognize—mine, my father’s and sister’s—but there are many I don’t. So many. And that doesn’t include her emails or any other important information, like banking or social media. This could take a while.
I slump farther into my seat. Shit. Once, just once, I want to feel like I did when I found the phone. Like I was making some headway. But so far it’s been one step forward, ten steps back.
“I know it seems like a lot,” Mr. Broussard says, drawing my attention away from my pity party, “but this is a good start. I’ve been able to identify the easy numbers, as I’m sure you have. Yours and Mr. Gallagher’s, Elizabeth Gallagher. You all called her on the day of her death.”
My nose stings as I nod, remembering.
He continues, “There’s another number on the day of her death that I don’t have. I was wondering if you could double-check it with your contacts.”
I nod. “Of course.” He points at the number, and I unlock my phone to type it into the contacts to see who comes up. My heart is in my throat, blood pounding in my ears.
But there’s nothing.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have it. Should I try calling it?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” he says after a moment’s thought. “I waited to speak with you first, but my next step is to track down all the numbers and compile a list for you to go over. I also got her calendar. Will you check and see if anything stands out to you? It should be near the back of those documents.”
I find the sheet and glance over it. There’s not much there that I hadn’t already gleaned from her social media. I practically devoured it in the weeks after her death, but unfortunately, I couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary. Charities. Trips to the bank. Pilates. Drinks with her friends. Appearances with my father. Meetings with her lawyer. Nothing seemed overly suspicious.
“Nothing that stands out, no. But it doesn’t make sense to me, and I don't understand why the police ruled it an accident. Despite what my father thinks. I mean, who trips and falls down the stairs?” I shake my head. My mother was a former supermodel. She could sprint a 5k in heels. Tripping down the stairs? I don’t think so.
“That’s alright. We’re only getting started. I still have to go over all the police reports and security camera footage. Don’t give up on me yet.”
