“Goodnight,Alec,” I replied hurriedly, then ran from the kitchen, away from a man who Ifound myself wanting nearly as much as I needed him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ALEC
Agrisly scrapbook of photographs was laid before me on the counter. Snapshots ofGrace Allan, sprawled over a rock in a way I now saw as meticulous and clearlydisplaying her body in death. There was something so graceful about herposition, the spread of her lithe arms and cross of her delicate ankles. Like aballerina inquatrièmedevant. I already knew then that this had been noaccident, but it was even more maddening now, looking at these pictures andseeing the precarious way she had been situated on the table-like stone, howanybody in my office could see and think otherwise. It was enough to drive meto insanity, and I wondered who it was to make that call.
Butthat was an investigation for another day.
Rightnow, I needed to find Grace Allan's killer, and I hoped that, with theinformation provided by Rosie, I was one step closer to catching the bastard.And I hoped it wasn’t anybody I knew.
Rickwandered into the kitchen sometime around six in the morning. He glanced in mydirection on his way to the refrigerator and asked, “Haveyebeensittin' here all night?”
“Aye,”I muttered, gripping my hair, as I stared at Gracie's pictures.
“Makin'yerselfmadisnaegonnacatch the killer any quicker,” he said, taking thebottle of milk out and closing the door.
“Whatdo ye reckon these are?” I asked, ignoring his gentle scolding to point at apicture of her leg.
“What?”
“Thesemarks right here,” I said, tapping at her thigh. “They’re bruises, but thepattern is … strange.”
Witha full glass in hand, Rick came over to peer over my shoulder at the picture.His brow furrowed over his thick-framed glasses as he squinted and grunted anoise he only made when he was thinking.
“Didye notice that when ye weredoin' the postmortem?”
“Aye,”he muttered. “I waswonderin’ whatcouldaecaused it as well.”
Itwas on her outer thigh, a dark purple imprint of something suspicious andpeculiar. Its jagged stripe spanned the width of her thigh, and Rick and Istared at it, heads cocked, and brows crumpled, as if we could solve themystery with the power of our combined minds alone.
“Canye get a better picture of it?” I asked, and he grunted in agreement.
“Aye,I’ll do that.”
Ishuffled the pictures and paperwork into a neat pile and looked up to the clockon the wall. It was half past six. It was both too late to sleep or head out,and I shook my head at my inability to find rest while on a case. I neverlearned. It had been a crucial breaking point in my failed marriage, and onewould think that’d be motivation to change. But it would be motivating only ifI had planned to get married again, and I didn’t.
Butthat didn’t stop me from abruptly looking up at the sound of Rosie entering thekitchen.
“Goodmorning,” she said quietly, tightening her arms around her middle, as if shewere bashful and hadn’t just spent the better part of a day in my company.
“Didwe wake ye, lass?” Rick asked, apologetically. Always a better man than me.
Rosieshook her head and a few loose strands of her hair fell across her forehead.“No. I couldn’t really sleep. I tried, but …” She shrugged, keeping her gaze caston the floor. “I just keep thinking about her.”
Inthe state she was in, it seemed sinful to find her so gorgeous, but I did.There was such a breathtaking, quiet quality to her sadness, that I wondered ifI would still find her as beautiful if she felt otherwise. But then, as Istudied her full, rounded lips and the smooth, glass-like surface of her skin,I decided that, yes, I undoubtedly would. Any man who wouldn’t want to see herhappy would have to be a monster, and I certainly wasn’t.
“Aye,”Rick replied, nodding with sympathy. Then, looking at me with a firm glare, hesuggested, “Alec, yewannamake the lass a cup?”
Immediatelyrealizing that I’d been staring, I shook my head to snap myself out of it andhurried to the kettle. “Do ye like coffee? Tea?”
“Um,tea,” she replied, sliding onto a stool.
“Whatkind do ye like?”
Shethought for a moment, keeping her eyes on the counter and the stack of picturesand papers, then asked, “Do you have Irish Breakfast?”
Isnickered a bit, as I shook my head and opened a cabinet door. “No,” I replied,“but I do have Scottish Breakfast, if ye’re interested.”
