Page 91 of Only You and Me

I scratch my head, frustration flowing through my body. “I just feel like we’re missing something.”

“I don’t know about that. I think it’s got to be one of these three. But which one?” Rachel glares at the photos of our three current suspects: Guy French, Darren Digsby, and John Lemond.

“I don’t think it’s French. He’s not smart enough to get away with it this long.”

“Agreed.” Rachel takes a sip of her coffee and leans back against her desk, still staring at the wall.

I still can’t shake the feeling in the back of my mind that I’m forgetting something important. Something big. I’m in the middle of wracking my brain trying to retrieve a memory I feel like is buried there when my phone rings.

“Donley speaking.”

“Hi Detective. It’s James over at the lab. I’m sorry it took so long, but I think we’ve finally got something on those two partial boot prints from your crime scenes.”

I lean over my desk and grab a piece of paper and a pen. “Go on.”

“Interestingly, we could match the prints to a brand of boot—XT—and we’re pretty sure what style, but that’s not one hundred percent. We can’t tell the size because they were from two partial prints, but we think it’s their TTT model.”

Holy shit.

“Email it to me as soon as possible. And thanks.” I hang up and turn to Rachel.

“Who was that?”

“It was the lab. They’ve got an ID on the boot. It’s XT brand?—”

“A tactical boot?” Her eyes widen.

“Yeah, and it’s their TTT model. That’s a three-hundred-and-fifty-dollar boot. And I’ve seen it twice in the last few months. I can’t believe I fucking missed this…”

“What are you talking about?”

“John Lemond wears those boots—pretentious asshole—and I saw them when we went to check out Guy French at that construction site in River’s Run. You call and see if you can get a home address on Lemond and I’m gonna call River’s Run building department and see if that project is complete. If not, we’re taking a road trip.”

“Guy was wearing them? Three-hundred- and fifty-dollar boots?”

“No. But Alero was. I noticed because I thought it was a bit overkill for his construction site. Our suspect list just grew.”

* * *

TRINA

Emily has been sitting in the passenger seat of my car for several minutes, staring out the window.

I clear my throat. “It’s kind of stuffy in the car. How about I walk with you and I’ll sit on one of those benches while you go see him?”

I’m sure Emily knows I’m just giving her an out not to go alone. It’s early September and pleasantly cool outside. She nods at me, and we both climb out of the car. I notice that the papers she’s holding in her hands are quivering from her shakiness. That, and the fact we’re at the cemetery where she buried her husband last year, makes my heart break for her.

I mean, she just turned twenty-eight years old last month and has already been married, cheated on, and widowed. How is that fair?

I watch as she walks to the grave of her late husband.

It’s not that I don’t feel compassion for Teddy. His bipolar disease was something he battled for years. And he was a firefighter on my shift—under my command—so I would have given my life for him on the job. I know he wouldn’t have cheated, then gotten so low to overdose on drugs and alcohol in a dingy hotel room last September if he hadn’t stopped his meds and therapy.

My brain knows this, but my heart doesn’t accept it. My heart is still angry at him for the pain he caused Emily. I consider that if she can forgive him and let him go, maybe I need to do the same.

I just want Emily to be happy and safe. I was so sure after I talked to Fitz the other day and gave my blessing for him and Emily to be together that he’d reach out to her. But he hasn’t yet and I’m worrying he may not get past his own hang ups to allow himself the love he deserves.

I watch as Emily unfolds the papers in her hand. It’s obvious she’s crying as she wipes at her eyes. I know she wrote Teddy a letter, a goodbye of sorts, and from where I’m sitting, it looks like maybe she’s reading it out loud. When she wipes at her eyes more furiously, I grip the edges of the bench to stop myself from going to her. She made it clear she needed time alone with him. But sitting here, helpless while she grieves fifty feet away from me, is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.She’s strong, though, and I need to let her do this.

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