Page 105 of Scarlet Thorns
“The police barely investigated,” Mom continues, her voice gaining strength as anger overtakes grief. “Ruled it suicide within forty-eight hours. Case closed. But there were too many things that didn’t add up. We’d been talking about taking a walk through Blue Hills that weekend. He’d made plans for the following week— bought tickets to that medical conference in Philadelphia, already paid for the hotel. Why would he do that if he didn’t intend to be around? Why, Ilona?”
I rub the ache that’s forming in the center of my forehead. We’ve been over this ground a thousand times, but hearing it again only reinforces what we both know: none of this makes sense.
“This investigator,” I say, my voice thick with unshed tears. “He really thinks he can find something?”
“He has contacts in Moscow, in the Russian medical community. He thinks Dad might have been involved in something… something that got him killed.”
Involved in something…
The words are heavy with implication. What could my father— gentle, healing hands that brought babies into the world— have possibly been involved in that would get him murdered?
“Ilona, I’m worried about you. You sound different. Are you okay? Is everything alright in Budapest?”
The sudden change of subject takes me a moment to process.
“I… uh… Everything’s fine, Mom. I just… I have to go. I’ll call you soon, okay?”
“Wait, honey—”
“I love you, Mom. We’re going to find out what happened to him. I promise.”
I hang up before she can protest, my hands shaking as I set the phone down, avoiding questions I can’t answer. Questions that would lead to more questions, and more lies, until the web becomes so tangled I can’t find my way out.
Twenty-five thousand dollars to find my father’s killer.
The thought sits in my mind like a poisonous seed, growing roots. I have the money now— or I will, as soon as the contract is fully executed.
But then another thought strikes me: Jason. My former boss Jason Mulholland. He’d been my anchor during those terrible weeks after Dad’s death, the one person who’d looked me in the eye and said what everyone else was too polite to voice: this stinks to high heaven.
My fingers are already dialing his number before I’ve fully made the decision.
“Ilona.” His voice is warm with genuine pleasure, that familiar gravelly tone that used to calm me down when cases got too heated. “How are you holding up, kiddo?”
The nickname gives me a sudden rush of comfort. Like maybe I’m doing the right thing.
“I’m…” I pause, trying to figure out how to explain without explaining. “I’m surviving. But Jason, I need to ask you something. About Dad.”
The warmth in his voice shifts, becoming more focused. More professional. “What about him?”
“I want to hire a private investigator. Someone good. Someone who can dig into what really happened.”
There’s a long pause, and I can picture him in his office— probably leaning back in his chair, running his hand through his silver hair while he processes. He’d stepped down as captain shortly after I left, but I know he’s still involved in investigations, and I doubt he’d ever be able to slide totally into retirement.
“Ilona, we’ve been over this. The Boston PD—”
“Did a terrible job.” The words come out sharply. “They asked a few questions, got the official suicide ruling, and called it a day. You know it, I know it, and anyone with half a brain who looked at that case file knows it.”
Another pause. When Jason speaks again, his voice has that edge I remember from when he was interrogating suspects who weren’t being entirely truthful.
“What’s brought this on? It’s been a year since your father died. Why now?”
“I can afford it now,” I say. “I’ve been saving, and I finally have enough to do this properly.”
“Ilona.” His voice softens, taking on that paternal tone that used to make me feel like everything was going to be okay. “I know you loved your father. I know you need answers. But you also need to be careful about opening old wounds. Sometimes the truth is worse than not knowing.”
“I can handle the truth.”
“Can you? Because from where I’m sitting, you sound like someone who’s been through enough already. When you left Boston…” He trails off, and I know he’s thinking about Stanley.
