“Gorgeous, we don’t have time to give you the full story. I promise that whatever happens, we’ll lend our considerable resources to protect you. And as soon as we can we’ll tell you everything. Right now, all I need for you to do is trust me. Can you do that?”
“Ashley is dead and you’re asking me tolieto the police. No, of course I can’t bloody trust you!”
“Only to protect an innocent person who absolutelydid notcommit this crime. But if they know he was first to see the body they will focus on him instead of going after the real killer.”
“I can’t believe you’re asking me to do this.”
“I can’t either,” Heathcliff growled. “Mina should speak the truth. We’ll figure out a way to help Quoth. We always do.”
“I’m not forcing Mina to do this,” Morrie said. “It’s her decision. But it would be infinitely easier if she left Quoth out of it. If she felt bad afterward, she could always go to the police and change her story, say the shock affected her and made her forget certain details.”
“You’ve accounted for my eventual betrayal?” I didn’t know whether to be impressed or offended.
“All you need to tell the police is exactly what you saw – that we all heard a noise, and you came down the stairs after us and saw the body on the floor, already dead. Just leave out the part about Quoth coming down first.”
“Where will Quoth be in this story?”
“Nowhere. Quoth doesn’t ‘technically’ live here. So just don’t mention him.”
“But he’s upstairs getting the tea!”
Morrie shook his head. “No, he’s not.”
I broke from Heathcliff’s grasp and raced upstairs, tripping on the second step and pitching forward, nearly chipping another tooth on the doorknob. I caught myself and fumbled through the living room to the tiny kitchen at the rear of the flat. Unlike the living room, it fit the vernacular of typical bachelor flat – a mess of unwashed dishes and empty takeout containers in various stages of decomposition. Wind whipped the curtains from the open back window.
I lifted the kettle off the stove. It was ice cold. Quoth was nowhere to be found.
Chapter Eleven
“Are you okay to answer a few questions now, ma’am?” The young sergeant asked, her eyes eager.
I sat in Heathcliff’s chair in the main room of the shop. A cup of tea sat undrunk on the desk in front of me. Nevermore Bookshop was now officially a crime scene. Police officers filled the tiny space, combing the staircase, hallway, and garden for clues while the SOCO team worked upstairs, first zipping Ashley’s body into a white bag and removing her to wherever they took bodies, then taping off the Sociology shelves and dusting and dabbing and tweezing every tiny scrap of physical evidence. Heathcliff flanked my left side, a strong, warm hand resting on my shoulder. His presence was all that kept the bile rising in my throat.
“Yeah, sure.” I tied my unruly hair up into a bun, then let it down again. I folded my hands in my lap, then unfolded them. I dabbed at my eyes, but they were dry. I didn’t know what a person was supposed to do when their ex-best friend was murdered.
“You were the one who found the victim?”
“No. I mean, not really.” I pointed to the tall figure standing across the room speaking with another police officer. His eyes met mine, eyebrows raised in pleading. My stomach churned. I screwed up my eyes.I can’t believe I’m doing this.“I was behind Morrie and Heathcliff. We heard a noise and ran downstairs and we found her lying on the ground, and the knife…”
And Quoth, Quoth was there first. He found the body and then he fled.The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t make them fall out. Maybe it was Heathcliff’s hand on my shoulder, or Morrie’s smile, or the wave of exhaustion washing over me. My cheeks burned with heat. Any moment now, Sergeant Wilson would call me out on my lie and throw me in jail…
Instead, she patted my hand. “Please, take your time. I know it was a horrible thing to see. I understand you knew the victim?”
“Yes. Her name is Ashley Greer. Her mum lives up on Donahue Road. We’ve been friends since we were fifteen, and we lived together in New York City for the last four years.” I pulled at a loose thread on my skirt. “Actually, weusedto be friends. Ashley and I had a falling out recently and we haven’t talked in a few weeks. I didn’t know she was back in town until she showed up at the shop.”
Sergeant Wilson scribbled furiously. “You used to be friends?”
“Yeah. Back in New York City, we were both working for the same fashion designer. Ashley got competitive over a job we were both up for. She told the designer something about me – a secret I told her in confidence – so the designer would choose her instead.”
“What did she say about you?”
My throat closed.
“It’s not important. It’s not relevant to the investigation,” Heathcliff snapped.
“I’ll decide what’s relevant.” But I shook my head and the sergeant didn’t press. Instead, she turned back through her pages of notes. “You saw Ashley in the shop this evening?”
“No, earlier today. She came into the bookshop this afternoon, and stayed for an hour or so.” I flicked my head toward the staircase, and a pang of nausea clenched my gut. “She spent most of her time in the Sociology section. She even came back after she changed her outfit.”
