Page 55 of Remember Me

“Jim, get your big dick over here and let me introduce you to my guests,” our host calls out.

I don’t need an introduction from Sheldon. I know who he is.

Jim Hartley. My late wife’s former boss.

“So nice to finally meet you,” coos Kayla, running her manicured fingers through her sun-kissed hair. “Sheldon didn’t tell me how handsome you are.”

Jim’s steel-gray eyes stay on her. Making their way down her body, he seems smitten by her icy beauty. “Nor did he tell me how beautiful you are. Why haven’t we met before?”

Sheldon intervenes. “Sorry, Jimbo. She’s taken. Phineas here is her fiancé.”

Helping himself to a shot of Jack Daniels, Jim’s attention diverts to me. Recognition flickers in his eyes. “Hey, don’t I know you?”

“My late wife worked for you. We met briefly at a Conquest Broadcasting Christmas party.”

Taking a sip of his whisky, the Southerner digests my words, furrowing his brows as if he’s trying to remember our encounter. Truthfully, it wasn’t memorable—a quick, perfunctory “nice to meet you” and he moved on to more important people in the crowd. The movers and shakers. The beautiful women, many of them models and starlets.

He takes another swig of his drink. Time to jog his memory.

“Perhaps this will help you. You gave a speech at her memorial service.”

He swallows hard. “Are you talking about Skye Collins?”

“Yeah.”

“What?” mutters Sheldon, choking on his drink. He regurgitates the liquid, spraying it all over the floor as he staggers back against the bar.

“Sheldon darling, are you okay?” asks Kayla.

A snarl curls his lips as he nods his head and gestures with his hand:Stay away!

Jim, on the other hand, maintains his composure.

“I’m sorry about your loss. Your late wife was one of our finest investigative reporters. It’s a real shame her life was cut short. Such an unfortunate accident.”

“Yes, such an unfortunate accident,” parrots Kayla, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Anger surges inside me. While I’ve never discussed the circumstances of Skye’s untimely death with anyone, the need to get it off my chest consumes me. Maybe Hartley knows something. I take a fortifying breath.

“Actually, it may have been more than an accident. The police believe she was murdered.”

Sheldon blanches while Jim flinches. Artists, like writers, are observers. Their skittish reactions disturb me. Something’s off. A tense silence fills the air until I break it. Curiosity pulses through me.

“I hear you were interrogated.”

Hartley sips his drink before answering. “Yeah, the police came snooping around her office. Some shlumpy cop who was a dead ringer for Columbo.”

Detective Billings.

“He went through her desk and asked a lot of annoying questions.”

“Like what?” I spit out the words, hoping that Skye’s former boss can shed some light on her murder, which is now considered a cold case.

“Like if she was working on anything unusual.”

“What did you tell the dickhead?” asks Sheldon, the anxious tone of his voice mirroring his vexed expression.

“Nothing. There was nothing to tell.” As Sheldon drains his drink, Hartley turns to me. “Your wife was more consumed with getting home early to spend time with your baby.”

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