My mind tries to connect the dots.
I killed Roger a week ago.
Jamie may or may not have been seeing Emma for over a week but those messages sure read as if it was a long-term connection. The fiancé was, of course, a long-term relationship. In other words, if this is about me, just about me, the killer wasn’t someone close to Emma—at least no one I know about as of yet—nor is it someone completely unknown to the investigation.
Kane appears in the doorway. “He made a strawberry pie.”
“My God, I love you,” I say. “For a million reasons that include strawberry pie.”
“Feel free to list them all off.”
I laugh and close the space between us, wrapping my arms around him. “You’re trying to give us a normal holiday when nothing about our lives is normal, a family holiday. And you’re tolerating my brother and Lucas. And for those reasons alone, I need to set this case aside long enough to enjoy this day.”
“That’s not who you are, Lilah. Be you.”
“A million and one reasons,” I comment softly. “I need a shower. Do you need a shower?”
“Is that an invitation?”
“Do you need one?”
“No, but I waited a long time for you to be here, beautiful. Ask me anyway.”
And so, I do. “Will you shower with me, Kane Mendez?”
And so, he does.
We don’t talk about the unfinished conversation or fear.
I’m not afraid of him anyway. He has to know that. I’m afraid of myself.
But I’m working on that. Or I will.
Soon.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It’s three o’clock and I sit at the bar that overlooks the kitchen, watching our chef team cook, while sampling delicious food, writing out stacks of notecards related to my investigation. As for who is preparing that delicious food—Michael Roswell is a remarkably good-looking man—tall, dark, and handsome personified. He’s also an acclaimed chef, who assures me he has no family of his own and in fact, he enjoys spending his Thanksgiving cooking for others. His helper is Naomi, a pretty blonde who doesn’t speak, anger crackling beneath her surface that seems to be directed at Chef Roswell. There’s a subtle intimacy between them that defies their avoidance of eye contact with one another. And yet—I don’t believe they’re a couple. Whatever the case, what bothers her does not bother him. He’s humming to Christmas music that isn’t playing anywhere but in his head. But there’s more to their story, and another day I’d try to figure it out but not today.
Right now, I have a murder to solve, and that’s my focus.
The jar of blood was a message.
I didn’t need pretty little DD to tell me that brilliant tidbit of information. Now I have to discover the answer to a puzzle. What message? I write out a notecard with every idea:
— I’m better than the Umbrella man.
— More blood will spill.
— You beat him. You won’t beat me.
— It’s not over.
— I’m coming for you.
— You stupid bitch, you will never figure this out.
— Look here, so you won’t see the truth.
Kane sets a glass of wine in front of me and sits down. He’s in jeans and a dark blue sweater. I’m in jeans and a red sweater. My mom loved the holidays and she always wore red on Thanksgiving to launch the season. Who said I wasn’t sentimental? Me mostly, but my mother was the good part of me, the part that wasn’t a sinner, and since the house I inherited from her burned down, I’ve been disconnected from her. It’s not a good time for me to feel disconnected from my good side.
Kane figured that out, too, smart man that he is. So much so that, at my prodding, there’s a stunning tree decorated in silver and red in our living room that towers seven feet high. No one, most certainly not my brother, would believe Kane and I did the decorating, but we did. And to our surprise, we enjoyed every moment. Who says you can’t stab a man to death one moment and hang ornaments the next?
Kane picks up the card that reads you stupid bitch, you’ll never figure this out, eyes it, and lifts it in my direction with another one of his arched brows. “Who said this? You or the killer?”
“Probably both,” I say. “I feel like the meaning of that jar of blood is smacking me in the face so damn hard I should have a concussion and I still don’t have it.”
He scans all my options and then says, “You forgot one possibility.”
“Which is?”
“I don’t know. But none of those feel right.”
“Smart-ass. You’re no help.”
His lips curve. “Drink more wine. That will help.”
“I think you’re right.” I reach for my glass and sip, the bloom of sweet red berries on my tongue, my version of poison. For Emma Wells, it was a long, cold drink of water. If she was even poisoned. DD doesn’t think so, but I don’t trust her or her opinions at this point. I’ll wait for the tests.