“I wrote him a rambling love letter,” I explain, “and put it in his mailbox.”
Theo hisses through his teeth. “Noooo,” he drawls. “What did he say?”
My awkward smile falters. “Uh, he moved away, actually.” I try to swallow through the sudden tightness in my throat. “I mean, I know it wasn’t because of my letter, but…” But it felt like it. Irrationally, it still does.
One month later, my parents were gone, too. I was left withdrawing my enrollment from the university and searching for a job. Quentin and I broke up, my brother moved out, and I learned words likeescrowandestate.
“Anyway, that’s it,” I say, attempting a casual shrug, though I feel like a frayed thread. “That’s the entire story.”
“I bet you Rafael never even got the letter,” Paige says, her mouth full of donut. Noticing my skeptical look, she insists, “In romance books, the love interest always misses the letter.”
“So now that he’s back, you want to pick things up where you left off?” Theo asks.
“They went on a date yesterday.”
“It wasn’t adate,” I scold.
“She offered to hook up and he said he wants to take things slow.”
“Paige!”
Theo turns back to me. “Damn.Gray? I’m pretty sure the guy came up with one-night stands.”
“Right. So I shouldn’t.” I fidget with the empty cup in front of me, then look up at him. “Right?”
Theo inhales, the scent of roasted coffee beans filling the air, then slowly exhales. “Well, you know I’ll kick his ass if he messes up.” He scratches the back of his head, gaze drifting to the bustling café around us. “But Scarlett…” His gaze holds mine. “You don’t have to listen to me or Paige. You’ll know what feels right. All you need to do is trust your gut.”
Trust your gut, Scarlett,I tell myself as I sit in the worn leather chair, my fingers drumming an anxious rhythm on the armrest. Chief Donovan’s office is a cluttered space, walls adorned with commendations and faded photographs of stern-faced officers.
I used to come to the police station all the time to bring Dad lunch, but I haven’t stepped foot in here since my parents passed. It’s smaller than I remembered. Cluttered, dusty, dead. Dad always talked of how with the nearly inexistent crime rate in Willowbrook, he barely even felt like a police officer. Mom always “praised the Lord” for it.
The silence is deafening, broken only by the occasional rustle of papers or the gentle hum of an ancient desktop computer. Through the grimy window, I can see the entire police force of Willowbrook—all four of them—hunched over their desks. Officer Jenkins, a portly man with a receding hairline, is wolfing down a jelly donut next to Trevor, while Wes, who was my dad’s partner, pores over what looks like a stack of parking tickets. Vanessa, with her blond hair tucked under a cap, is smiling at her phone, probably texting Paige.
My eyes dart to the clock on the wall. It’s 3:47 p.m. I’ve beenwaiting for a while, but I’m not leaving. I’m trusting my gut, just like Theo said.
I breathe out deeply, hoping to quell the butterflies in my stomach. This theory of mine is wild, I know. But the pieces fit together too perfectly to ignore. The flowers on Catherine Blake’s body, the writing on the wall, the strangulation—I can’t get any of it out of my mind, so I won’t.
Seriously, where is this guy?
The door creaks open, and Chief Donovan shuffles in, his weathered face a map of wrinkles and worry lines. He settles into his squeaky chair with a groan.
“Scarlett, how are ya?” he says, his voice gravelly from years of cigarettes. “We haven’t seen you in a while. How can I help you, sweetheart?”
“I appreciate you seeing me, Chief. I’m sure you’re, um, busy, but I have some information about the Catherine Blake case that I think you need to hear.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “What could you possibly know about it?”
I lean forward, bracing for what’s coming. “When I read about the crime on theWhistle, I recognized the MO.”
“The MO, huh?” he asks. His skeptical tone is already bugging me.
“Yes. There’s this book—really popular—that came out just a couple of weeks ago.The Thornwood Butcher.” I wait for him to take a note, but he doesn’t. “In the story, the victim is a historian who’s kidnapped while she’s out with her dog. Her throat is slit, her eyes removed. And her mouth is stuffed with flowers. The killer even leaves a bloody message on the wall.”
He keeps staring at me, smoothening his thick white mustache. “Okay. So… you’re suggesting that the author acted out his murder fantasy?”
What? “N-no,” I mumble. “I’m suggesting that someone copycatted the murder from the book.”
“Hmm.” He looks through the window, as if wishing one of his colleagues would come rescue him. “Well, sweetheart. I appreciate your visit. We’ll be looking into this. Say hi to your brother when you see him, will ya?”
