“Well”—he tips his head back, allows the water to fall across his face—“if you think it fits, I’ll go with that.” He grins, then bends to kiss her, hard. She lets him, allowing the tension in her body to uncoil as he moves his mouth down, across her neck, to her breasts and stomach, until he is kneeling before her. When he kisses her there, the hot water easing the knots in her shoulders, she feels herself unspooling, and any thoughts of the police ebb with the steam.
When he has finished, they return to the bedroom and Roger asks her to fetch his cigarettes. She quickly obliges, pulling on a robe and descending to the hallway. She reaches for his coat and pats down the pockets—putting aside movie stubs and receipts for car repairs—to retrieve the box.
Back up in the bedroom, Roger pushes the corner of a towel into his ear and jiggles it. Beverley takes a Lucky Strike from the box and places it between his lips, slowly lighting it for him. He takes a drag and leans his head back blissfully. She uses the opportunity to ask him about Emily Roswell.
“Sure. We found a girl,” he admits, blowing out a curl of smoke.
She knows Roger secretly likes that she takes an interest in his work. She knows Enid doesn’t. She knows he likes it because it gives him a chance to sing his own praises.
“Where was she?”
She knows the answer—she heard it on the radio—but she wants to see if he will be honest with her this time.
“On the golf course.”
She holds his gaze.
“Where on the golf course?”
Roger takes the cigarette away from his mouth, tilts his head suspiciously. “The divers found her.”
“Did she drown?”
“No, she didn’t drown.” He flicks ash into the tray. “She was dumped there after she was killed.”
“Strangled?”
“Bev.”
“Was she strangled?” She repeats the question with feeling. Cheryl Herrera, the young track athlete, had been strangled.
“She had been stabbed, okay?” Roger concedes. “Multiple times.”
“Damn it.”
“What do you mean,damn it?” Ash has fallen on the bedspread. He flicks it off. “Bev?”
“Were there any unusual details?”
“What’s going on here?” He studies her face.
She knows that means there must have been something. She ties her nightgown and reaches for his shirt, then holds it out to him. He plunges his arms in, one by one, like a child, then sighs.
“Her hands,” he says quietly.
“Mm-hmm?” She leans into him as she fastens his buttons, taking great care not to sound too invested.
“Whoever did it to her had…” He’s shaking his head. He takes another deep drag on the cigarette. “Whoever did it had tattooed something on her knuckles.”
She fumbles the top button, forces herself to stay calm. “Tattooed?”
“He’d etched something into her hands.”
She’s got him in a weakened state, soft from the shower and the sex. She knows he shouldn’t be telling her this. “What did the tattoos say?”
He pushes her away gently and fastens the remaining button. “Loveandhate,” he says reluctantly. “One on each hand.”
“Like some Hells Angels thing?”
