“Boss. Yes. I am your new boss. Sorry about that. I’m hoping it won’t be too much of a problem for you. And just so you know, I actually have very strict rules about not sleeping with people I work with. Especially those who are under me, so to speak, but I wasn’t your boss when we did what we did, so I’m hoping we can just put all of that behind us. Start again. Reset. What do you reckon?”
“I… don’t know what to say.”
“Well, ‘Congratulations’ might have been nice. Or, ‘Welcome to Hope Falls.’ Or, ‘I’m thrilled I get to work with someone so experienced who can probably teach me more about being a detective in one day than I will have learned sitting around here for the last few years.’” I don’t respond well to sarcasm and in this situation I can’t seem to form a response at all. I’ve slept with my boss. I’ve seen her naked. I’m picturing that and all the things we did and I realize I’m just staring at her. “Do you need switching off and on again?” she asks.
“What?”
“Never mind. Perhaps you could tell me why today is so busy?”
“A woman is missing. Another suspected suicide.”
“Why do you say another? How many have there been?”
“The waterfall at the top of the cliff is a popular suicide spot. We get a lot of jumpers, especially at this time of year,” I say. Then I remember that my new boss’s mother killed herself—that’s why she left Hope Falls when she was a child—and it’s probably not what she wants to be reminded of on her first day. I’m making a terrible second first impression.
My mind races ahead to all the reasons why her being here is bad. Then my mind wanders back to that night when I met her at Spyglass. I fancied Birdy the first time I saw her. She has a certain quality, a quirky uniqueness that I can’t quite put my finger on. Idoubt I would have done what I did if I’d thought I’d ever see her again, but she said she wasn’t coming back and invited me in. How was I supposed to say no? I’ve never had sex like that before or since. I remember kissing her. I remember fucking her. I remember the taste of her—
“Carter?”
“Sorry, what?”
“I asked you a question and you’re just staring into space. Have you had a stroke?”
“I don’t think so. What do I call you now?”
“Birdy. I told you that already. Try to keep up.”
“Seems a little informal.”
“I find things tend to be less formal when you’ve seen a person naked.” I can feel my cheeks burning. “Was there a witness to this suspected suicide?” she asks.
“A dog walker saw a woman running up the coast path to the cliff—”
“Did they see her jump off it?” I shake my head. “Have you found a body?” I start to shake my head again. “Use your words, Carter.”
“No.”
“How long ago was the woman reported missing?”
“She wasn’t.”
“So you haven’t found a body and nobody has been reported missing. But you think there has been a suicide because…”
“I just formally interviewed the husband and I have reason to suspect—”
“You did what? I get that you’re bored, but you can’t just invent crimes to investigate.”
“There have been some strange goings-on up at their house the last couple of days—”
“Strange goings-ondon’t stand up in court. On what grounds did you interview the husband of a woman who hasnotbeen reported missing because youthinkshe might have committed suicide?”
I hate the way she is looking at me right now. I hate that she is here at all. When I got the call to say a new detective was starting today, I imagined a man. Someone I could look up to and learn from. She doesn’t even look like a detective, and even her dog is staring at me as though I am an idiot. I’m not.
“The husband came here voluntarily. Said he had something to tell me.”
“Is there a transcript?” she asks.
“No.”
