Page 24 of Death in the Family
I thought about explaining myself. I didn’t think about it for long. It was an asshole move, attacking him like that, but I figured Tim and I had years of thoughtless remarks and regrets and makeup sessions ahead of us. He’d stumbled across a trip wire. In time he would learn to sidestep those, just like I would circumvent his.
Silence. His eyebrows were a steady line. “So what now?” he said when he tired of waiting for an apology that wasn’t coming.
The question was rote. What came next couldn’t be answered with a word or a three-point plan. I was still in the middle of preliminary interviews, and there would be follow-up questions, hours more of exploration as I searched for a crack that would give me a sure foothold on the case. What Tim actually meant wasyou’re acting crazy, and I don’t know you well enough to understand why, so can we please move on?
“I’d like to check in with McIntyre,” I said. She’d have heard about the case by now, and I should have called her sooner, had been putting it off. I knew what McIntyre would say when she found out where I was, and after talking to Carson, I didn’t feel like listening to another lecture.
“Yeah, okay,” Tim said, faking cheerful. “But first, let’s see if Norton’s done buttering his toast points and spooning the caviar. I’m starving.”
ELEVEN
Tim and I broke bread with the Sinclairs while a grandson, brother, boyfriend was missing, possibly out in a historic storm, dead already or fighting for his life. I couldn’t help but think about how, just that morning, I’d sat at the breakfast table with Carson and reached for his pumpkin-spice creamer believing it was the most excitement I’d see all day.
The in-box on my iPhone had been crammed with messages from brands—reminders to update the wedding website Carson built for us, e-mails from Crate & Barrel and Williams-Sonoma warning me their sales were going, going, gone. I scrolled through them while sipping my too-sweet coffee. After I got my scar, getting married wasn’t something I thought I’d do. God knows planning a wedding wasn’t something I expected to enjoy; the fashion and extravagant frivolity were lost on me, a woman who useddollar-store shampoo and owned exactly three pairs of pants. But Carson kept signing me up for newsletters, hoping I’d come around. He said it would be cathartic, and it was true I’d found some comfort in ticking off a to-do list. My ability to be methodical about unresolved issues means organization comes naturally. Plus, planning the wedding kept my mind off the marriage itself.
It wasn’t that I was reluctant to wed this handsome and successful catch, just that everything was moving fast. I’d already pushed back the date once because of the move, so Carson was more eager than ever to “tie the knot and get on with our lives.” For him, the big day couldn’t come soon enough. As I deleted a message promising to reveal my bridezilla ranking on a scale of one to ten, he brushed my cheek with his hand and asked if I’d thought about inviting Tim to the wedding.
“Hon,” I said. He’d brought up the idea twice already. In fairness to Carson, I couldn’t stall any longer. “I’ve thought about it a lot, actually. I know you’d like him there. The thing is, it’s awkward.”
“Why would you think that?”
“It justis.” I flipped my hand on the kitchen table and the diamond on my engagement ring, an obscenely large cushion cut I’d drop in a box on the dresser before leaving for work, struck the wood. A spark of pain whizzed up my arm like a shock. “For one thing, we barely know each other.”
“All the more reason for him to come.”
“For another, we can’t invite him and not McIntyre and the rest of the troop.”
“Timmy’s your partner. It’s different.”
“BCI investigators don’t have partners,” I said, though I saw his point. Compared with Tim, the time I’d spent with the otherinvestigators was negligible. “Timmy,” I repeated with a half smile. “Did he really let you call him that?”
I thought I’d seen blue eyes before I met Carson, but his were next level. Shards of sky and slate twinkled and flashed at me when he smiled in response. “We used to be best friends, Shay. I helped him blow out the candles at his fifth birthday party. After the summer we learned to water-ski? When he sprained his wrist? I took notes for him in class for a month. I was there when Timmy set fire to a porta potty at a construction site in town and landed himself in jail.” Carson scratched his salt-and-pepper goatee and laughed. “I thought his dad was going to lose his mind.”
“When I told you we were going to be working together, you said you hadn’t talked in years. All that stuff you just described happened a long time ago. Be honest,” I said. “Do you have anything in common now other than being from the same town?”
“Sure we do,” Carson said. “We have you.” He tilted his head and studied me. “Okay, so we’re not exactly besties. But let’s look at this another way. You’ve got some random grandma on the guest list who you met in a kung fu class you stopped taking six months ago.”
“Karate,” I said, “and Sueanne’s in her fifties. She doesn’t have grandkids yet.”
“I stand corrected. Tim’s local, and we both know him. Inviting him makes sense. So what’s this really about?”
Carson was always analyzing, always two steps ahead. Watching him think reminded me of riding the subway. To pass the time and hone my investigative skills, I used to observe the other commuters and try to read their body language, their minds. I’ll never know if I was right, but it was a fun challenge. With Carson, therewas no point even trying. When he looked at me, my fiancé could have been devising a new name for my condition, considering disclosing his darkest secret, deciding whether to have a second bagel, or all of the above. That fascinated me, and it never got old.
“Work is work. This is personal,” I said. “I don’t feel comfortable blurring the lines.”
“How long has it been?” he asked.
“Thirteen months.” As if I needed reminding.
“Thirteen months since it happened.” He used his thumb to remove a smear of cream cheese from his plate. Carson had mild OCD, which I thought was ironic given his profession—or maybe it made perfect sense. He couldn’t stand it when things were a mess. “Thirteen months since I found you, and every day I worry—every single day. And now, at last, you’re going to be my wife.” He glanced at my hand, at the ring, and paused. “It’s my job to protect you. It’s why you hired me.” He waited for me to laugh, but the joke was old and inaccurate. I never hired Carson; he was assigned to me. “I love you, you know that,” he said. “So sue me if I want to make damn sure the guy I used to cut school with, and who now spends ten hours a day by your side, isn’t another deranged piece of shit.”
My vision blurred and the room turned white. We had a rule: Don’t talk about Bram. We’d long since picked apart what happened between me and him. I’d rehashed my time in that cellar until my throat was raw. The day Carson finally suggested we shift the conversation from Bram to me in an effort to help me heal, I was ecstatic. And here he was comparing my colleague to the man who stabbed those women.Becca.Lanie.Jess.
I took a breath and willed my palpitations to diminish.Carson’sworried about me.That’s all. For a second I considered telling him he didn’t need to be, because I didn’t expect to be with Tim for long. I was sure McIntyre would still change her mind and drop me. When we first got to A-Bay I didn’t unpack my clothes for weeks; why bother, when I wouldn’t be staying? If I blew my chances at the only detective gig around, we’d have to relocate, no question. My apathy toward living out of boxes had driven Carson crazy. He wanted me settled in his hometown. The whole point was to leave New York—and what happened there—behind. Carson would feel better knowing I’d be his again, all his, very soon.
I could have put his mind at ease, but I didn’t. I decided against it, because what if—what if—I was wrong? What if I was a better investigator now than ever? What if Carson was mistaken about my going back to work?
What if I was healed?
