Well, that just figured. Ophelia stepped inside the warm home, somewhat surprised Monica and Brock had managed to keep their one night a secret. There seemed to be no secrets in Knife’s Edge—except those involving murders. “Thank you.” She kicked off her snow boots in the small alcove and handed over her coat. Dots of snow still flecked the collar. “When is it going to stop snowing?”
“Around May,” Monica said quietly, hanging the coat on a series of angled hooks. “Can I offer you coffee?”
“Sure.” Ophelia followed her into a wide living area with a flatscreen mounted above a stone fireplace that was crackling happily. “I’m not arresting you and you’re under no type of detainer, but you have a right to have a lawyer present if you want.”
Monica hitched into the adjoining kitchen, which had been painted a cheerful yellow. “That’s okay.” She filled two mugs with coffee and strode around a wide island. “Let’s sit by the fire.” Monica carried two thick red mugs around a denim sofa and sat in the adjoining chair, shoving aside a bright yellow throw pillow that made the room feel lived-in and warm.
Ophelia followed, curling into the corner of the couch and letting the fire's warmth seep into her. Monica’s house was full of personal touches—handmade quilts draped over chairs, shelves packed with books and framed photos, and a faint scent of vanilla lingering in the air.
“David’s working long hours with the snowplow.” Monica wrapped her hands around her mug. “I regret my drunken night with Brock because we’re just friends and it was stupid. But you two weren’t dating at the time, and neither were David and I.”
Ophelia appreciated the frankness. “I understand.” She paused, studying Monica. “You don’t think you should tell David?”
“No.” Monica’s gaze drifted around the room before settling back on Ophelia. “He’d broken up with me at the time—not sure if he wanted to get serious. And I don’t think it’s his business. Why make things difficult around here? Brock and I got drunk, got naked, and both regretted it.”
Ophelia swallowed the bitter taste rising in her throat. Did he whisper soft words into the woman’s ear after sex? Did he hold her the same way? She shoved down the thoughts,forcing herself to focus on the investigation. “Tell me about that morning.”
Monica shrugged, the steam from her mug wafting up. “I lived briefly at the Tundra Complex before David and I got back together, and it’s on the opposite side of town. We’d taken my snowmobile from the bar the night before, so I had to give Brock a ride back to the tavern to get his. It was so freaking awkward because we both knew we’d made a big mistake. We were later than we liked getting back and didn’t want anybody to see both of us on my sled, so we went the roundabout way by Crocker’s Creek.” She paled even more. “That’s where we saw Hank.”
Ophelia forced her gaze down into her coffee, pretending to be unaffected. “What did you see?”
Monica gulped, her eyes getting a faraway look. “He lay in the river, face up, obviously dead. Blood still poured from his chest.” She placed her mug on the coffee table and rubbed her arms as if she couldn’t get warm.
Ophelia looked around the cozy house, trying to shift the conversation. “Then what?”
“Brock pulled Hank from the creek, and we had to leave him there to ride into town and tell the sheriff.”
“The sheriff saw the scene?”
Monica nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”
So where did the pictures go? Or had Blazerton taken any? “Why would the sheriff keep your name as well as Brock’s out of his report? Who found the body is always important.”
Monica reached for her coffee. “The sheriff was my uncle on my mom’s side. He knew Brock and I didn’t kill Hank, and he didn’t want to mess up my life because of David. Family matters around here, Olly.”
Obviously. Ophelia took in a deep breath. “Did you see anybody around the body?”
“No.”
That tracked. “Who do you think killed Hank?”
“Somebody by accident, I’m sure.” Monica shook her head. “Everyone knows you’re looking at the Osprey brothers, but it doesn’t make sense.” She rubbed a thumb along the edge of her cup. “I attended the funeral. All four of those men—so trained and deadly—and yet in that moment, they all became little boys again. Lost ones. I’ve never felt such pain in a room.”
Ophelia’s throat tightened at the thought of the Osprey brothers grieving like that—each of them powerful, dangerous, and still utterly human.
“Then why are they all blocking my investigation?” Ophelia blurted out, the words sharper than she intended.
Monica’s expression shifted, her lips turning down in a frown. “Because it hurts…and it’s over.”
Ophelia opened her mouth to argue, but Monica pressed on.
“They’re finally healing, Ophelia. They’ve all come home again. Ace, Christian, Damian, and even Brock—they scattered after Hank died. And now, they’re trying to be brothers again.” Her voice softened. “A hunter killed Hank, and you’re just stirring up the pain.”
Ophelia’s hands tightened around her mug. “I don’t think it was that simple.”
Monica sighed. “I know you don’t. But you’re an outsider here. When you poke at old wounds, the people who stayed behind are the ones who bleed.”
The fire crackled as the silence stretched between them. Ophelia understood Monica’s words, but that didn’t change what she knew deep down—Hank’s death wasn’t random.
