“You’re way too happy about this,” I mutter, following him.
“It’s a classic Hansel-and-Gretel scenario.”
“Children leaving breadcrumbs on their way to a house made of candy?” I raise an eyebrow and deliberately do a sweep of the house. “This one’s brick, genius.”
“No, the creepy old lady fattening children up.”
“Was she fattening up Veronica? I don’t think I’d consider our victim a child.”
“She was once.” Spencer jabs the doorbell and lets out a put-upon sigh. “Stop ruining my analogy.”
“You didn’t need help with that.” It never worked in the first place.
The door opens before he can respond. Saved by the bell. Not to mention, all his theories—and mine—go right out the window.Irene would fall over from a stiff wind. I’d be surprised if she hit five feet, and her bony, angular arms couldn’t hold someone under water long enough to drown them. Not someone who, by all accounts, was fit and healthy. Whoever this lady is, she’s not our killer.
Spencer mumbles, “Damn,” under his breath.
He’s not wrong. Let’s hope this isn’t a colossal waste of our time.
“Can I help you?” she asks, hand wobbling on her walking stick.
“Excuse me, ma’am, my name is Detective Constable Alex Young, and this is my partner, Detective Constable Andrew Young.” We flip open our wallets to show our fake badges in our wallets and let her get a good look before putting them away. Not even a real cop would pick them up even if they weretoldthey weren’t real. “Detective Senior Sergeant Riley Sinclair spoke to you a few days ago regarding Veronica Ferguson.”
She nods unsteadily and moves out of the way. “Yes, of course. Come in, come in. Let me put on a pot of tea.”
“I love tea,” Spencer says brightly.
I know for a fact that he despises tea. Has a lot of opinions about it and none of them are fit for polite company. What he’s hoping for isfoodwith that tea. And to keep her relaxed, so that she’s more likely to respond positively to any questions we have.
Irene takes us into a living room that’s surprisingly modern, given the exterior of the home. Sleek furnishings and a large TV mounted above the mantelpiece.
“Take a seat and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be right back with your tea.”
“Let me help you.” Spencer beams at her, and her hesitation doesn’t last long. He’s impossible to resist. I know that better than anyone. “No” isn’t a word he’s overly familiar with. Helps get him into all sorts of places most people can’t gain access to.He’ll slip a blade between someone’s ribs before they’ve realised what even happened, too busy mesmerised by that winning smile.
I use the opportunity to check out the room in more detail. Pictures line the mantelpiece over the fake fireplace. Likely family: children, grandchildren. A faded wedding photo with a woman that bears a vague resemblance to the one whose ear Spencer is chatting off in the next room. His voice, loud and clear, carries through the quiet house. I bet it’s more noise than this place has been subject to in a long time.
The rest of the walls are bare, except for two lights behind the couch. Thick curtains are open, with sheer curtains covering the window for privacy. Or somewhere safe to peek out and watch the neighbourhood, with no one the wiser. Everyone needs a hobby, I don’t judge. Unless that hobby involves murder.
Finished with my disappointingly empty search, I make myself comfortable on the couch and wait. It’s softer than I personally like, my weight sinking in a little too far. Getting up’ll be fun. Once we’re done here, Spencer wants to stop at a nearby storage business to pick up boxes to pack up my apartment.
Spencer waltzes through the open archway with a wide smile, carrying two small saucers with mugs rattling on them. The pressure I didn’t even realise was building inside me just from being away from him for a few minutes eases the instant I see him. He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
He didn’t brush his hair today, so the blond strands flop haphazardly over his forehead, no rhyme or reason to their direction. He’s wearing a suit, which is a rarity for him. He’s only doing it to solidify our “detective” status. Wearing jeans and a T-shirt with random cartoon characters and popular cereals hardly says competent law enforcement. We can’t give her a reason to think we aren’t who we say we are. I can’t say I’m not enjoying the image he presents.
His tie is already shifted a little to the left, but the rest of his attire is impeccable. Perfectly pressed slacks—I know because it’s courtesy of me, not him—and the two middle buttons of his jacket are done up, stretched taut over his flat stomach. He looks edible.
The urge to peel every inch of the clothes off him until he’s fully bared for me is strong enough that I have to curl my hands over my knees to stop myself reaching for him.
“I snuck an extra sugar in for you,” he stage-whispers to me, handing me a mug.
“How generous of you.”
He smiles over the rim of his own mug and then takes a long drink of his. I’d kill to know what’s going through his mind right now. Impressive control, considering he’s not outwardly shuddering and gagging. He puts his drink down and gives another one of those brilliant smiles, showing off his dimple, to Irene. She visibly relaxes, returning it. The bee flying right into the flower’s net.
“How long have you lived here?” Spencer asks. “It’s a beautiful home.”
She startles, like she isn’t expecting the question. “Over forty years now. You should have seen it when we first moved in. My husband and I put a lot of work into it.” Her eyes gloss over a little, the way they do for everyone when speaking of a lost loved one.
