“Because you have enough to do, and what could you have done anyway? Nothing. It was over in less than two minutes and I’m fine. Like I said, you’re not my bodyguard.”
Olly sipped his tea. “Are you pissed with me or something?”
“No, sweetie, just tired. How’re things with you?”
Olly nodded. “Good. Good. Listen, Inks, um …”
Inca suppressed a smile. “What’s her name?”
Olly laughed, his expression sheepish. “Molly. She’s a criminologist, working out of the city.”
Inca felt a pang in her chest but smiled at him. “Nice. How long have you been seeing her?”
“A week or two. Look, I wanted to tell you because I’m thinking of taking her to Levi and Jim’s and I didn’t want to just tip up there and—”
“I get it,” Inca interrupted. “Look, Olly, we’re adults and friends. It’s okay, really. I look forward to meeting her. We both need to move on.”
Later, after Olly left, Inca went into the bathroom to shower and get ready for bed. She stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around her long dark hair and grabbed her moisturizer. Gazing in the mirror, she looked at herself critically. She had café-au-lait skin courtesy of her Indian birth mother and almond-shaped green eyes from her Japanese-American father. She knew people considered her beautiful, but Inca could never see what the fuss was about. She had to be honest; the attention she got wasn’t always welcome. Catcalls, lascivious and repellent remarks, even grabbing hands, had all been part of her life since she was a teenager. Her curvy body drew men to her constantly. It was the reason why she had taken self-defense classes.
Inca couldn’t remember when her dislike of the attention had started. Nancy and Tyler had adopted her from a very young age and she couldn’t remember her life before that. She’d asked Nancy once, and Nancy, her face pale, had merely told her. “Be thankful you can’t remember.”
Inca had been satisfied with that for a while. But lately, she had been having vicious nightmares about violence and a woman screaming. She had woken up shivering and gasping for air.
Even with Olly, it had taken her a few weeks of dating before she trusted him enough to sleep with him. Inca laughed softly to herself now, wondering how many other twenty-eight year olds could boast of only ever having one lover. She clicked off the bathroom light and got into bed, thinking about what Olly had told her. Inca wondered if she herself would ever find anyone else and realized that if she didn’t, it wouldn’t bother her. She was happy enough alone.
Olly Rosenbaum madehis way to the small town’s police department. His nightshift was just starting and he flicked through a couple of messages, before settling down to some paperwork. It was a half-hour before one of his deputies, Fred, stuck his head in the door.
“Boss? We just got a call. A body’s been found, down near the reservoir. Looks like a homicide.”
Everyone was talkingin hushed tones as Inca arrived at work the next morning, clumping down the stairs, still half-asleep. She definitely wasn’t a morning person.
“Hey y’all,” she said sleepily to Scarlett and Tish, the other teenager she employed. Tish had bright red hair and wore full make-up even at this time of morning. They grunted in greeting, then went back to their conversation. Inca switched the coffee machine on and went to open the front door. “You two thinking of doing any work today?” she said pointedly.
Scarlett, her usual grin missing, turned to her. “Have you heard?”
“About what?”
“There was a body found up near the reservoir last night. A young woman. She was stabbed to death.”
Inca felt sick. “God, that’s horrific. How did you hear?”
“On the news; national as well as local. Really brutal, too.”
“Poor woman.”
As if on cue, Olly pushed into the teahouse, followed by a small, dark woman. He greeted them and introduced her. “This is Molly Welsh; she’s been collecting evidence at the scene.” He gave Inca a meaningful look and she realized this was his new girlfriend, Molly.
She smiled at the newcomer, noticing how different she and Molly were. Molly was even tinier than Inca, and effortlessly chic, almost French in her way of dress. She had short cropped dark hair, huge brown eyes, and a cute face. She smiled back at Inca with genuine friendliness.
Inca got them both coffee and sat down with them. Olly shook his head. “It’s bad, Inks. Poor kid was only young, late teens, early twenties. Stabbed repeatedly in the stomach, almost gutted.”
Inca grimaced. “Who would do that? I can’t remember the last time we had a murder around here.”
“1976,” Olly said. “Before either of us was born. That’s how rare it is.”
“Any leads?”
“None.”