“Newman! Peter Newman. Who else could it be?”
Oliver blinked at him like he had spoken in tongues. “Any number of Peters? A coincidentally named Peter who happens to be her cousin and has no magic, for example.”
“Or it could be our fellow investigator who managed to get on the case, have full access to her room to hide any evidence he wanted, and got to control the narrative by interviewing all of the nuns while we looked for evidence outside. Of which he knew there wouldn’t be much because he did it.”
“This is all circumstantial. We can’t start accusing people we work with because they’re a sloppy investigator. One of the other nuns or even Father Gareth could have removed the papers or the rosary, even if the sisters think they didn’t. We can’t prove anything.”
Felipe opened his mouth, but Oliver cut him off with a raised palm and a stern look.
“Andwe don’t know that he can manipulate air. Even if he is involved, we haven’t proven he’s the one who murdered both of you. We already know more than one person is involved.”
Adrenaline pumped through Felipe’s veins, beating back the fatigue that had been hounding him all afternoon. He wanted to move. He wanted nothing more than to go back to the Paranormal Society and confront Newman about Sister Mary Agnes’s death. He didn’t need Oliver’s help. He had solved plenty of cases on his own, especially when Jed went in his cups and disappeared on him. The man who killed him and Sister Mary Agnes was still running free, and if that man was Peter Newman, Felipe was going to make him pay dearly. The weight of Oliver’s hand on his knee snapped him from his thoughts.
“Look, I don’t disagree with you that this is highly suspicious, but we can’t throw around accusations. We need evidence. We need to talk to people who know Inspector Newman or visit Sister Mary Agnes’s family to see who this mysterious Peter is. The sister did say he was a family friend. Or we could break into Newman’s rooms and see if we can find the papers or rosary.”
Felipe stared in disbelief. Oliver Barlow, the man who grappled with morality from the second he resurrected Felipe, was willing to commit a crime. “You’re willing to break into his rooms?”
“I would like to at least try the other things first, but I’m not above it. It’s not as if I do my job the proper way most of the time.”
“I could kiss you right now.”
A lopsided grin crossed Oliver’s lips, but it was quickly replaced by his sterner expression. “But we are not breaking in tonight. And I will take no ifs, ands, or buts about it. You are in no shape to go anywhere right now.”
Protests rose in his throat until he realized the adrenaline had finally snuffed out, leaving only the bone-deep exhaustion behind. “You noticed?”
“It starts with the dark circles. I noticed your hands starting to shake, and you get cranky. Not that your ire isn’t warranted. Did you have lunch before we left?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s probably why. I know the perfect place, and it shouldn’t be too busy on a Monday night. It’s the restaurant I was originally going to suggest when...”
“When you finally worked up the courage to ask me,” Felipe supplied, hoping to ease the pang of worry that traveled across the tether.
Oliver released something between a scoff and a laugh. “Sure, we’ll go with that.”
***
Mather’s Chophousewas the sort of place Felipe could picture Oliver eating on a weekday night. The restaurant was dark, which was enhanced by the black leather of the booths and the wood paneling, but the place was clean, spacious, and half-empty. Much like Oliver Barlow, it felt sturdy and practical. As they slid into the tall booth, the clatter of dishes and the din of voices died back, and Oliver’s shoulders noticeably drooped in relief. The menu was the expected chophouse fare: lots of meat, bread, root vegetables. Felipe swallowed hard at the smell of meat and gravy all around him. He didn’t even like gravy, but the thought of consuming enough meat to feel normal again was enough to make him want it. That and a beer. He deserved one after today.
“My treat, by the way, so order what you would like. You’ve spoiled me these past few days, and I want to return the favor,” Oliver said with a small smile.
Felipe wanted to say it was nothing, yet it wasn’t. The meals were, for him, an extended last supper, but he liked seeing Oliver try the things that meant something to him and appreciate them like he did. “Thank you. I’m sorry your plans were ruined the first time.”
“That wasn’t your fault, but the Tam Noodle House was far better than what I had planned.”
Biting back a tight smile, Felipe wanted to say that wasn’t what he meant. That they were dancing around his death to keep from hurting his feelings when the wound had already been flayed open with no signs of healing. He only had a little over four days, and he felt the weight of them keenly. When the waiter arrived before he could articulate his thoughts, Felipe sighed and ordered liver with a beer. It wouldn’t have normally been his first choice, but in the past when he had been struggling to heal, liver seemed to work better than a cut of beef in helping him to recover. If he had been paying for his own meal, he would have bought a porkchop to go along with it. He hoped his meal would be filling enough to tide him over until he could grab something else. Oliver ordered a beer to match Felipe’s and a steak that he was adamant should be pink on the inside.
“How are you feeling?” Oliver asked, his cheeks red from pleading with the waiter.
“All right. Looking forward to eating.”
“No, I mean, about all of this. What we’ve learned, what we’ve done, what you might still want to do.”
“If you mean visiting Teresa, I still don’t know. She sent me a letter today, but I haven’t looked at it yet,” he replied, his hand trailing to his chest where he felt the crinkle of paper beneath. Felipe caught his beer as the waiter slid them onto the table without stopping and took a deep swig. Keeping his eyes on the foamy head of his drink, he tried to banish the imagined words from his mind. “I’m afraid to know what it says.”
“What if she’s writing to tell you she’s coming to visit? Or it could just be her telling you about her classes and what she’s doing with her friends.”
“Or she could be telling me I’m a negligent father who should have been there for her.”
