Page 62 of Method of Revenge
“Hold still,” she said. “This will hurt.”
Hurt was an understatement. It felt as if the claws of several feral cats were attacking his shoulder and upper back as she dabbed the deep gash along the breadth of his shoulders. A piece of David Henderson’s falling ceiling had inflicted the wound, and it had pained him then. But now, the agony of it was settling in. He leaned his forehead against his arms, which were crossed on the back of the cane chair, and endured it.
He was exhausted. His whole body hurt. And there was an unbearable kink in his stomach when he thought about Leo and that deceptive fool, Murray. Why would she have agreed to dinewith him in the first place? The sodding constable didn’t even walk a police beat or assist in the detective department. And now, the idiot might have reawakened interest in the Spencer murders and in the survivor the killers had not intended to leave alive.
At the front of the house, the brass knocker came down twice in quick succession. Mrs. Zhao stopped dabbing Jasper’s wound. “Are you expecting someone?”
“No. Send whoever it is away,” he mumbled.
She left the kitchen, and as he waited, sleep pulled him closer. The bite of cold air against the throbbing of his back was all that kept him from dropping off.
The door to the kitchen swung open again.
“Who was it?” Jasper murmured, still resting his forehead against his crossed arms and speaking toward the floor.
“I thought you were going to come take my statement.”
He straightened in the chair at Leo’s voice but moved too quickly. Flaring pain rippled down his back, and he groaned in protest. She stood at the entrance to the kitchen, her coat and hat having been collected in the foyer. Belatedly, her attention shifted toward his exposed torso. Her lips parted, and she blinked rapidly as though dust had caught in her lashes.
Jasper took his shirt from where he’d tossed it onto the table and sought the sleeves. “Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting company.”
He hastily pulled on the shirt and buttoned it.
“Mrs. Zhao said your injury is quite serious.” Leo had averted her eyes, but her cheeks were pink. The blush was rather fetching, he had to admit.
“I’ll be fine.” He finished with the buttons and tucked the hem into his trousers. “Mrs. Zhao, can you bring tea to the study?”
“I can’t stay,” Leo said firmly. “I just wanted to give you my statement.”
Though he was now dressed, she still avoided looking him in the eye by opening the kiss lock on her handbag and taking out a sheet of paper. “I’ve already typed it for you.”
She set the single sheet on the table. Jasper couldn’t read the typed words from where he stood, but he did note that there weren’t very many.
“That is your statement?” he asked. “It’s two paragraphs, at the most.” She couldn’t possibly have described everything that occurred that day and why within two paragraphs.
Leo hitched her chin. “I kept it short, as I know my involvement in the case will only cause you more trouble with your superiors and the rest of the department.”
He grimaced. He needed to tell her what Coughlan had demanded. “Leo—” Faltering, he stopped and turned to his housekeeper. “Mrs. Zhao, can you give us a few minutes alone?”
Her indefatigable raised brow expressed that she was not pleased one jot to be asked to leave her own kitchen. But she merely sighed. “Help yourself to some potted beef and bread.” She then removed her apron and left through the door that led to her rooms.
Once they were alone, the tension spread quickly and grew thorns. Jasper picked up the typed statement. There was mention of Mrs. Nelson’s confession letter, the bomb, the explosion, and Leo’s coming upon David Henderson and Terrence Nelson at the hospital. The details were sparse, which must have pained her, and when she wrote about the exchange of prisoners, her account simply stated that Jasper had no choice but to relent or risk the life of an innocent woman.
He set the paper on the table. “Coughlan has given his final warning. I am to cease associating with you, or I’m finished at the Met.”
Silence followed. He waited a moment before looking up at her. Leo had her eyes pinned on the bowls of chopped vegetables, her teeth digging into her bottom lip. She lifted the cover on the crock of potted beef. Setting it aside, she started to fix herself a plate, as Mrs. Zhao had invited her to do. He watched her slice through the loaf of bread on the table, spread the potted beef on it, and then pull out a chair.
“Leo?” He released a pent-up breath. “Say something.”
She took a bite and, only after a measured swallow, said, “Chief Coughlan is resting the blame on me.”
Flipping his chair around, Jasper sat in it properly instead of straddling it. “It isn’t your fault. If you hadn’t been there for Carter to threaten, he would have found another way to get to Nelson.”
“Perhaps. But you needed that arrest,” Leo said.
“Yes. I did.” He sighed, despising the feeling of futility. Everything in him fought against it. “But even without Nelson in hand, the murders are solved. Including one that I’d given up on.”
“Regina Morris.” At his nod, she added, “I’m glad you found answers for her. Her murder affected you. I could tell.”
