Something I never normally do on the job.
Getting out of the car, I feel like a fool for still being this affected by him, but I’m determined not to act like it. Shoulders squared, I push open the door, head held high, and march right on inside.
The reception area is small but tidy. A middle-aged woman behind the desk looks up when I enter, her expression shifting from polite and welcoming to guarded when I flash my badge.
"Detective Harris. I'm here to see Mrs. Holloway."
My nose twitches as I take a deep breath. I swear, I can smell him.
"Of course. They're expecting you." The receptionist rises, gesturing toward a door at the back. "Through there and down the corridor, the last office on the left."
The corridor is lined with framed photographs of the company through the decades. Holloway Printing and Packaging in the sixties, the seventies, the nineties. A family business built from nothing and passed on from generation to generation, where loyalty and tradition are more than important, but a way of life. I bet some kids of the people in these pictures even work here now. That's why this theft, if it's true, will have been so hard for them to fathom.
The door to Mrs. Holloway's office is slightly ajar. I can hear voices inside, one female and wavering, one male, low and reassuring. And achingly familiar.
When I enter, Beau is sitting beside Mrs. Holloway's desk, his chair angled toward her. He's not interrogating her. He's not even interviewing her. He's just there, present, his full attention focused on the elderly woman like she's the only person in the world who matters.
Mrs. Holloway has one hand resting on his forearm, a tear-stained tissue balled up in her fingers. She's in her seventies, silver-haired and more fragile-looking than the last time I saw her, and she's telling him something in a soft voice while he nods, his expression gentle. Papers are spread across the desk, but neither of them is looking at the documents.
Beau looks up, and our eyes meet. Everything else melts away, and for a second, it feels like we're back in that hotel room, all fire and passion. Then, just as quickly, it's gone, extinguished, and his expression goes flat, and the smile I thought I saw coming never materialises.
The warmth drains from his eyes like someone flipped a switch. He’s not one bit happy to see me.
“Detective.” He straightens in his chair and gives me a stiff nod, but without pulling away from Mrs. Holloway's touch, allowing her to still seek comfort from him.
The coldness of his greeting stings. He really hates me. Rocking back on my heels, I clasp my hands together to stop myself from fidgeting and looking nervous.
Beau's gaze tracks my reaction, sharp as ever, and my face warms, imagining he can hear every ridiculous thought that’s running through my brain.
"Oh, Detective Harris." Mrs. Holloway rises from her chair, one hand pressed to her chest. "Thank you so much for coming. This is Mr. Lennox, the investigator I hired. He's been absolutelywonderful, and very busy, as you can see." She sweeps a hand over the very thorough, very organised-looking paperwork spread out in front of her.
"Mrs. Holloway." I step into the office, determined to keep my eyes firmly off Beau Lennox's stupidly handsome face. "I'm glad you were able to find the evidence you needed."
She nods.
"Beau’s found everything, working around the clock and listening to me, even when I couldn’t quite figure out how they were doing it," Mrs. Holloway continues, looking at Beau with fondness. "Thirty years I've known Sandra and Bill. Thirty years. I didn't want to believe it was true for the longest time..."
Her lips twist in sadness and humiliation.
Beau takes her shaking hand and finishes for her as she dabs her eyes with a clean tissue. His voice is so gentle. "From what we can tell, it started about five years ago. Small amounts at first. They got bolder over time."
Mrs. Holloway shakes her head, tears welling again. "I trusted them with everything. If they needed money or a loan, they could have come to me… I'm such a fool."
Beau wraps an arm around her shoulder, brief and comforting, before he leans back to look her in the eye. "You couldn't have known. They hid it very well. And being conned by people you trust, who you call friends, does not make you a fool."
She nods, giving him a watery smile, which he returns with a kindness that steals my breath away.
"I'll need to take your statement, Mrs. Holloway," I say, pulling myself together and retrieving my notebook from my jacket before I literally swoon over Beau in her office. "And copies of all the evidence Mr. Lennox has compiled. Of course, we’ll have to verify everything, so while it might be a bit tedious answering all the same questions twice, please be patient with us."
Beau looks at me, and I fight the urge to tuck my hair behind my ear, to fiddle with my gold necklace, anything.
"Of course, of course." Mrs. Holloway blinks rapidly and pastes a more stoic, professional expression back on her face. It's fake, but we've all been there. Sometimes you have to pretend you're okay just to get through. "Whatever you need."
I scan the files, with their color-coded tabs and highlighting, and my eyes drift to the two boxes on the floor. More files. More evidence that needs to be compiled and presented in some kind of order.
"This is everything." Beau rises from his chair. He's not looking at me. "Documentation, timelines, bank records. It's all there." His voice is professional and clipped. And jarringly formal considering the dirty words I know he’s capable of uttering from that mouth. "If you need me, just call."
"Thank you," I say, my heart soaring, "That would be helpful."
