Page 26 of Killing Me Softly

Jack blinked. “Okay…if you want me to just be with you, then…I can.” He tapped a hand on Kenny’s knee and squeezed. “I’ll call the station now, tell them I’m off duty—”

“I want you to investigate my mother’s death.”

Jack removed his hand from Kenny’s leg. “What?”

“I want you to authorise an examination of my mother’s body. Today.”

“Kenny…”

“I don’t think this was natural. Despite what they’re saying.” He kept his tone neutral so as not to alert the passing nurses and carers, patients, and visitors to what was potentially aclusterfuck of epic proportions on their turf. “I believe someone killed my mother and I need you to open an investigation. Right fucking now.”

Jack crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes. “If this was anyone else but you, I’d be calling for a liaison.”

“But itisme.”

Jack scrubbed a hand over his face. “Okay. Because itisyou, I’m going to let you explain why you think a woman in her eighties, who was in a care home, didn’t die of natural causes.”

“Because no one’s ever targeted the elderly before, eh? Come on, Jack!”

Jack glanced at his watch. “I’m giving you five minutes.”

Kenny arched a brow. “One minute for every year I was in your bed?”

Jack shot him a pointed look. “One minute for every promise you broke. You’ve already wasted one with that pathetic attempt to compromise me. Are you aware of my current caseload? I’ve got multiple missing men. Teen stabbings. Children killing children out there. So this better not be wasting my time. Go.”

Kenny stood, motioning toward the room. “In there.”

Jack hesitated but followed as Kenny pushed open the door to his mother’s room. The space was dim, the curtains half-drawn, a faint floral scent mingling with the chemical sterility. The bed, freshly made, eerily pristine, stood in contrast to the rest of it, filled with small, impersonal touches meant to comfort. Knitted blankets, a framed picture of a meadow. But one thing stood out. On the bedside table was a vase of roses. Crimson, lush, and vibrant.

Kenny pointed at them.

“Flowers in a nursing home?” Jack shoved his hands on his hips. “You better have more than that.”

“My mother was in good health before I left for Barcelona five days ago. I visited her. Yes, she had dementia, but I had afull conversation with her doctor before I went abroad to ensure there were no immediate concerns. Her mind was the problem,nother body. Yet I go away and she just…stops breathing.”

“Old people die, Kenny.” Jack softened, and Kenny immediately bristled.

Hehatedthat tone. Calm. Measured. Patronising. As if Kenny was a civilian. He wanted Jack to be as furious, as terrified, as ready to claw the walls for answers as he was. He didn’t want soothing platitudes. If anyone in this room understood the darkness, the malice people were capable of, it was him.Him.

Jack tilted his neck to get in Kenny’s line of sight. “Sometimes people just…give up.”

“She did not die of natural causes, Jack,” Kenny snapped. “Iknowshe didn’t.”

For a moment, Jack’s police demeanour cracked, revealing the friend beneath. “Kenny, listen.” He kept his tone even but laced with caution. Not for the potential catastrophe of yet another murder in his town, but for Kenny’s state of mind. “I know youneedthis right now. I get it. You’ve spent your entire career chasing the worst of society. Every twisted piece of shit you’ve ever examined has left a mark on you. It’s clouding your judgment.”

“Clouding my judgment?” Kenny scoffed. “Are you seriously—”

“I understand it,” Jack cut him off, firmer this time. “Ido.Your mum was the last connection you had to Jessica. The last piece of her. Of you. And it must be devastating to lose her, especially when you weren’t here. But, Kenny, people die and sometimes there’s no explanation for it. If I ran an investigation into every unexplained death in a nursing home, we’d have no budget for anything else. What do we get then? Anarchy.”

Kenny’s chest tightened at the mention of his sister’s name. He felt the words before they hit. The searing pain they dragged up. But he refused to let them take over. So he stalked over to the flowers by the bedside table and snatched the card.

“Then explainthis!” He shoved the card into Jack’s hands. “Read it.”

Jack took the card, brow furrowing as he examined it. The paper was cheap, thin between his fingers, the kind found in a bargain shop. But the handwriting was another story. Cursive. Elegant. Almost romantic. As if it belonged in a collection of love letters from a bygone era. Jack looked up from the words. “’Can’t wait to see you again soon, Jessica’. Christ,Kenny…”

“Interflora taking orders from the grave now, are they?”

“Okay, okay.” Jack rubbed his brow. “So who sent them? Who visited her?”

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