Holy shiteballs.
Of course.
How did I not see it before?
“You.” Heathcliff roared at Sherlock. “You’re the German tourist. You spent every one of your stories showing off your mastery of disguise.”
“No, it’s not him.” I finally clicked what had been niggling at me about the jacket. The details slid into place in my mind. There was someone else who was part of the cosplay scene, who knew a thing or two about costumes. Someone who had a motive not just for killing Kate, but for framing Morrie.
People will do crazy things for what they love. And sometimes, what they love will turn them crazy.
I thought about Sherlock and Morrie, and how they might once have had something great – a love that could endure – if they hadn’t both burned it to ash to satisfy their own egos. Morrie had learned from that mistake, and he was a different man now. Sherlock might learn it, too, in time, if Heathcliff didn’t strangle him first.
Sometimes even the greatest love can turn sour.
Sometimes there wasn’t a happy ending, especially not once ego got involved.
A lightbulb went off. Sparks of bright green light flashed in front of my vision. I understood what this crime was all about. Or, at least, I was starting to understand.
“What’s with that expression, gorgeous?” Morrie asked. “You look like the cat who got the cream.”
“That’s her Morrie face,” Heathcliff glowered. “She’s up to something.”
“Not up to something.Onto something.” I glanced around the confused and maniacal faces. “I know exactly who our murderer is.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Heathcliff kicked Sherlock in the side. “Of course we do. That’s why we’re here. To wring his scrawny neck.”
“Nope.” I smiled. “Sherlock’s a complete wanker, but he’s not our murderer. And he was right about one thing. This crimeisall about obsession. But not in the way we suspected. And I know exactly how we’re going to bring the killer to justice. It means I have to ask Heathcliff and Quoth to do something dangerous—”
“Yes,” Heathcliff growled, his eyes never leaving Morrie’s.
“Croak,” Quoth added.
“I’ll help, too, if it means Morrie goes free.” Sherlock piped up.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’ll help if it saves my business,” Sam added.
“Good.” I bent down and held out my hand to Sherlock Holmes. He stared at it like it might sprout tentacles, then took it and gave it a weak shake. I pulled him to his feet. “Then we’re all in agreement. Let’s catch a killer.”
* * *
“Mina, I can’t take it any longer.” Morrie’s voice wavered with uncertainty – a sound so strange and foreign on his lips that it turned my insides out. “They’re not going to stop hunting me. I’ve got to flee the country. But before I do, I need to say goodbye. Meet me in the bookshop after closing tomorrow night. 7PM on the dot. Leave the window in the Children’s room unlocked. Be alone, and don’t tell anyone,especiallynot the police.”
Morrie clicked off his burner phone and tossed it over the mountain. It clattered on the rocks before disappearing into the shrubbery. When he turned back to me, his usual cocky mouth was set in a firm line.
“I don’t like this, gorgeous.” Morrie turned back toward the cabin. The sun had set now, and I could barely make out the shape of his body in the gloom, but I could tell from the tension in his shoulders that Morrie didn’t approve of this plan. Which was odd, because usually he was all for a crazy scheme – and this definitely qualified as a crazy scheme.
“The only way to lure out the killer is if they believe this is their last chance to get you,” I pointed out as I stepped toward him. “We know they’ve got eyes on the shop. Quoth, Heathcliff, and Sherlock will be waiting to pounce. And with the police trace on our phone, Inspector Hayes won’t be far away. With all of that protection, nothing will happen to either of us.”
“This isn’t like the time we lured Ashley’s killer to the shop. This person is crafty. We don’t know how long they’ve been watching us.” Morrie turned abruptly, crushing me against his body, his lips pressing into my forehead. “If something happens to you because of me—”
“I’m not worried.” Okay, I was a little worried, but Morrie didn’t need to know that. He already looked completely defeated by the situation. When I told him who I thought the killer was… James Moriarty was rarely surprised, but that threw him off his axis.
“I’ve rubbed off on you more than I realized.” That gravity he’d used on the phone was still in his voice. We walked back to the bothy, where the others had gathered around the remaining candles. Morrie threw his clothes, books, and magnetic chess game into his rucksack.
“What about all your shirts?” I pointed to the small pile of rumpled designer clothing in the corner.
