She could feel his gaze on her profile, as if he was waiting for her reaction. She rubbed at a twinge in her chest. She didn’t like the thought of not seeing him. He was the first man she’d ever felt a real connection with. On their last date, he’d taken her dancing, the old-fashioned kind. They’d been the only couple on the dance floor not in their seventies. “I’m not going to do that.”
“I don’t think keeping our relationship a secret is a good idea.” He frowned. “It implies we’re doing something wrong when we’re not.”
“It’s not that I want us to have a secret relationship.”
“Then why do we have to drive to the next county every time we go out?”
“I don’t want people to stare at us. We’re entitled to some privacy.” Bree turned onto a tree-lined back road. She switched on her high beams to counter the utter darkness of the woods. “People already stare at me when I’m alone, like I’m some kind of novelty.”
“I know you were born here, but you haven’t lived in Grey’s Hollow since you were a kid. So, you’re a newcomer from the big city. You’ve made quite an impression on the town. People are curious.”
Bree’s takedown of her sister’s murderer and her first case as sheriff had garnered her a rush of publicity. The local press had delved into her family history, and people were morbidly curious about her parents’ murder-suicide. At age eight, Bree had hidden with her younger brother and sister under the back porch as it happened above them. As much as she personally hated the attention, she would have to run a campaign when her term ran out, and the good press she’d earned would help with her current budget negotiations.
“Look, my family has been under the local microscope for decades. I guard my privacy.” Bree bit back a rush of bitterness. People wanted to know all the dirty details of her family’s suffering. Didn’t they realize the Taggerts were real people, who had suffered real loss? This wasn’t a reality TV show.
“I understand why you guard your privacy.” Matt inhaled and blew out a hard breath. “But I’d rather walk down Main Street holding hands and say the hell with anyone who doesn’t like it.”
They emerged from the woods. Bree turned onto a rural highway. As they approached the small town of Grey’s Hollow, they passed a strip mall, the train station, and other signs of civilization.
“My office pays you,” Bree said. “There are people who would call our relationship a conflict of interest and accuse me of funneling money to my boyfriend.”
“In all fairness, you don’t pay me enough to qualify as ‘funneling’ funds. I’m not doing this for the money.” Matt had been shot in a questionable friendly-fire incident. He’d gotten a substantial settlement. He didn’t need to work.
“I know.” Suddenly too warm, Bree loosened the top button of her collar. The discussion with Matt was more stressful than finding a dead body. What did that say about her? She lowered her window an inch, letting a stream of cool fresh air into the vehicle. She wanted to be judged by her job performance, not her boyfriend. But Matt was right. They had every right to a relationship. She had a right to a private life, and hiding their involvement would only lead to problems. She was going to have to suck it up and deal with the intrusion into her personal life. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me. It’s you I’m worried about. Nothing’s going to happen to me. I don’t need this part-time, poorly paying investigator’s job. Wouldn’t you rather the news about our relationship come from you, instead of someone else?”
“Yes.” Bree loosened her too-tight grip on the steering wheel. “But I’m in the middle of trying to sweet-talk more money out of the county. Let me get through my budget negotiations with the board of commissioners, then I’ll figure it out.”
Matt reached across the console and took her hand in his big, warm one. “OK. But at that point, we’ll figure it out together.” He squeezed her hand, then released it.
A few minutes later, the GPS announced their destination was five hundred feet ahead. Bree turned into a small complex of town house–style condos. Yellow with white trim, the units were two stories each. Bree parked in front of the Thorpes’ condo, next to Deputy Oscar’s vehicle.
The relationship conversation with Matt had been out of her comfort zone, but it had taken her mind off the impending interview.
This was not an official death notification. The medical examiner had not formally identified the remains as Holly Thorpe. But her husband would know the truth, even if Bree had to couch the message with legalese. She shoved open her vehicle door. It was time to confirm a husband’s worst fear: his wife was dead.
CHAPTER FOUR
Matt followed Bree into the condo. The place smelled like stale grease and whiskey.
Deputy Oscar had opened the front door. With a heft of his duty belt, he gestured down the hall. “He’s in the kitchen. I’ve made coffee, but now he’s just a more awake drunk.”
A man sat at a small table, sobbing into his folded arms.
The second Bree and Matt entered the room, Mr. Thorpe jerked upright. He wore ripped jeans and an old university sweatshirt. Both were wrinkled and stained, as if they’d been slept in for days—maybe the entire weekend. His bloodshot eyes locked on Bree without blinking.
“Mr. Thorpe . . . ,” she began.
“Call me Owen, please.” He drew in a shaky breath. “Deputy Oscar said my wife jumped off the bridge, and you found her body in the river.”
Bree stiffened. “We’re not sure what happened.” She tried for a measured tone, but her frustration was palpable. “The medical examiner hasn’t issued a cause of death. All I can tell you is that your wife’s car was parked near the bridge, and we found a body we believe to be Holly nearby in the river.”
The glance she cast at her deputy was sharp enough to have sliced him in two. Oscar had clearly been in contact with deputies at the scene, and he’d relayed their assumptions to Owen. But assumptions were not facts. Death was hard enough on families without receiving conflicting information, and suicide was particularly difficult to accept.
Matt scrutinized Oscar. The deputy looked away, his mouth tight. He knew he’d fucked up.
“You can go back to your patrol duties now, Deputy Oscar.” Bree’s tone was dismissive, and the deputy slunk out of the kitchen.
“What do you mean ‘believe to be Holly’?” Owen looked confused. He reached behind him for a framed snapshot. He held the picture in both hands and turned it toward them. “Is it her or not?”
In the snapshot, a close-up of Holly was framed by a brilliant blue sky. She was looking over her shoulder at the camera. One eyebrow arched, her expression flirty and mock-serious, as if she and the photographer were sharing a private, sexy joke. Matt guessed that Owen had taken the picture from the almost reverent way he held the frame.
Oh, no.
Either Owen didn’t know his wife had been in the water for three days or he wasn’t thinking about the effects—that submersion and the beginnings of decomposition had distorted his wife’s face.