Francesca snorts, and I let her laugh even as I roll my eyes and mutter, “Henrik, please.”
“I’m more locksmith than burglar, if you think about it,” he continues, still typing furiously. “I hope you’re not thinking badly of me; think badly of whoever’s trying to murder you. I’m just the IT department?—”
“Henrik.”
“Right, so, Bethany admitted the candle was high in formaldehyde. That stuff fucking nukes your upper airways, Eric. Enough exposure and you can actually paralyse your vocal cords.” He yawns loudly into the mic, and I glance at the bright red 00:45 on the alarm clock. “Honestly, she’s lucky she only got off with an irritated throat.”
“Lucky?” I repeat with a humourless laugh. “Luck had no hand in this.”
I move past the bed and dig through the dresser for a sweater. Francesca’s gaze is tangible, fixed once more on the blackwork on my right shoulder blade. I’ve been shirtless for forty-five minutes, and the only thing she’s asked me thus far is to get her clothes and whether I’m certain my door’s locked. She’s dying to ask why I put the horror ofSaturn Devouring His Sonon my skin.
Worst part is she’s not subtle about it either, or maybe she thinks I’m too overwrought to notice.
“No, you’re right,” Henrik picks up the conversation. “But here’s where it gets kinda weird; the log shows that the original request was for an entirely strawberry-based candle, but unfortunately, they were out of the sugared strawberry fragrance oil they usually use.”
Francesca’s hands go still on the belt of her robe, and she lifts her horrified gaze to mine. “Fuck,” I mumble before I can stop it.The cotton sweater suddenly feels too tight, the neckline pulling taut.
“What?” asks Henrik. “Eric, if you tell me she’s allergic…” He doesn’t receive a response, and the next sound is a low whistle, followed by the clicking of a mouse. “Well,shit, that tracks then. Client insisted on a white candle, probably to mask whatever else would’ve been mixed in. But like I said, they were out of stock, andboom, formaldehyde candle.”
“Can you give me a name?” I press. “You said there’s no paper trail.”
“Um, the client paid three times the usual amount for silence, but Mara is legally required to retain one traceable point of contact. Don’t ask me why. Bethany let me look at the ledger, and whilst the client isn’t explicitly named, Ididget an address. Client requested a private signing, and the courier had to log a signature for what they call higher-value deliveries. I accessed the digital receipt, and the name that signed off for the package was…” He hesitates, and my heart sits in my throat. “Don’t shoot the messenger, but Gabriel Fairbanks signed it off.”
When I think back on this moment, I’ll commend myself for the fact that my brain doesn’t even register the bomb of information he drops. None of the shock hits me, and all previous anger that contaminated my every thought just evaporates into complete and utter apathy.
At least, in regard to anything to do with me.
Francesca, on the other hand, becomes a focal point for everything. I watch her panicked inhalations and how she tugs at the belt as though the robe is made of the scratchiest wool and shrugs it off.
I lower my voice. “When was the handoff?”
“Five days ago.”
Francesca nearly falls to her face in her haste to stand up. Her shorts are all wrinkled, and she’s aggressively rubbing atthem, shaking her head and trembling with every step towards the window. She just stands there, unable to look at me or the phone. Hands lift to the V of her camisole, pressing on the left side as if she’s trying to keep her heart from jumping out of her chest.
“Alright, get me everything you can about Fairbanks’ death, statements made by his family, and, if possible, a police report. I’ll talk to you later.”
Henrik hums in acceptance, and the line clicks off with nothing more than abeep. Francesca doesn’t turn at the sound, nor does she spare me a glance, even though Iknowshe can feel me trying to catch her eye.
I soften my tone, unsure whether what I’m about to say next is going to calm her or freak her the fuck out. “Francesca, they never found a body, remember?” Her jaw locks, and she shakes her head. “He just… disappeared.”
Baked Bean’s thread unfolds behind shut eyelids as I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing the pulsing in my temples to calm down for just one bloody second.Watch the cousinwas the anonymous speculation, and now I’m pondering upon whether it meant something entirely different. If both Kai and I misunderstood the warning.
Maybe Gabriel ran because somebody didn’t want him marrying Francesca. Maybe Edmund threatened him to leave. Loyal Edmund, obsessive Edmund, who wants nothing more than to keep his cousin forever. Now Gabriel’s pissed, and Godwyn chooses the one with the fuse burning beneath their skin, doesn’t he?
Francesca looks ready to bolt, so I take another step, hesitant. “I need you here right now, baby. If Gabriel’s out there—pissed enough to do this—he’s a threat, one we need to locate. You know him, so I need you thinking, alright?” She shakes her head again. “Francesca?—”
“He’s dead.”
I step forward again, so close yet so far. “We have to consider the evidence.”
She flinches atevidenceas though the word might attack her. “He’sdead, Eric.”
Logic wars with the instinct to reach out and touch her, but the equation can’t end—won’t end. No corpse for a funeral, fuckall closure for family, friends and one grieving fiancée, and a four-month gap between supposed death and signature.
I stifle the question I have no right to be asking:did you love him so fiercely that the only mercy offered for a broken heart is the permanency of his absence?The pulse of resentment that follows this thought takes me by surprise, and I feel monstrous for wanting an explanation.
“Look, if this is too much right now, it can wait.” I’m just a foot away from her now, fingers curling against the act of reaching forward. “But if you have any information on where he could be, it can help us.Significantly. You asked for my help, didn’t you?”
