“How many times has Holly left you?” Bree rested her folded arms on the table and leaned forward, intruding into Owen’s physical space to apply additional pressure.
Owen pushed his chair a few inches back from the table, trying to recapture his personal boundary. He glanced away from both of them. “I don’t know. I don’t keep count.”
But Bree didn’t allow him to evade the question. “More than five times? More than ten?”
“More than five, fewer than ten.” Anger lit Owen’s eyes as he met Bree’s gaze with an insolent glare.
Matt chimed in, forcing Owen to break off the staring contest. “Was your marriage always rocky?”
“No.” Owen’s voice softened, as if he was remembering the good times. “In the beginning, everything was great. We’ve been married five years, but the fighting only really started after her mom got sick.”
“Had you talked about divorce?” Bree lifted her pen.
“No! Never.” Owen shoved a hand through his hair. “We both knew the fights weren’t really about us. This is just a temporary thing. Once her mom’s situation passed, we’d be fine again.” But his voice was weak, and he stared at his hands.
So, once Holly’s mother died, everything would be rosy? They’d magically forget all the fights? Matt didn’t think that was true. Based on the lack of confidence in his statement, neither did Owen.
Owen leaned back in his chair, his posture sagging and defeated. “I guess none of that matters now. Holly’s gone. I can’t believe it.” He rubbed his eyes. “I shouldn’t have yelled at her. I should have been more patient and understanding. But I can’t go back now, can I?” He began to cry softly.
“Is there anyone we can call for you? A family member or friend?” Bree asked.
Owen wiped his eyes. “My brother is on his way. He’ll be here soon.”
“I’ll also need the contact information for Holly’s sister and employer,” Bree said.
“Her sister’s name is Shannon Phelps.” Owen pulled out his phone and read off the numbers for Shannon and for Beckett Construction.
Bree wrote down the information, then closed her notepad. “We’ll let you know when the medical examiner makes an official identification.”
She slipped upstairs and returned with a round metal hairbrush and a pink toothbrush in evidence bags. She showed the bags to Owen. “Are these Holly’s?”
Owen confirmed with a nod. Then they left him waiting for his brother, staring at the photograph of his wife and crying.
Outside, Bree paused on the sidewalk to scroll on her phone.
Matt glanced back at the house. “Seems cruel that he has to go through this again when Holly’s ID is verified.”
“It does,” Bree agreed.
“What now?” Matt asked.
“I’m emailing Dr. Jones to let her know Owen identified his wife’s wedding band. I’ll give her the name of her family doctor as well.” She tapped on the screen, then slid her phone into her pocket. “Next we drop the brushes off at the ME’s office, go home, and get some sleep. No point in getting ahead of ourselves. We’ll talk again after the ME issues a cause of death.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Bree sprinted down the country road, her breath steaming in front of her face. The coming dawn streaked across the gray horizon in shades of yellow. On her right, early-morning fog hovered over a meadow. When the sun rose, the mist would burn off. Digging her feet into the pavement, she drove herself forward until her lungs screamed. A half mile from the house, she slowed to a walk, her lungs still burning. She unzipped her light jacket and let the damp air cool her.
Ahead, the farmhouse sat still and quiet. Light glowed in the kitchen windows. Bree’s best friend and former partner, Dana Romano, was up, so there would be coffee. Dana had retired and moved to Grey’s Hollow to help Bree raise her sixteen-year-old nephew and eight-year-old niece. Bree quickened her pace to a brisk walk. By the time she jogged up the back steps, her heart rate had returned to normal.
Inside, she toed off her running shoes and left them on the boot tray. Then she stripped off her jacket and hung it on a peg. She turned to face the glorious smell that promised caffeine.
“Morning.” Dana stood at the counter, working the fancy coffee machine she’d brought with her from Philly. She was a morning person. At five thirty, she was fully dressed, her short gray-streaked blonde hair was stylishly tousled, and she was already wearing bright raspberry lipstick. “Did you have a good run?”
“Good but cold.” Bree rubbed her hands together.
“In two more months, you’ll be bitching about the heat.” Dana dusted a large cappuccino with cocoa powder and handed it over. “It’s a double.”
Bree wrapped her cold fingers around the mug and sipped. Her body hummed in anticipation of the caffeine like one of Pavlov’s dogs. “If I don’t get my run in early, it doesn’t happen. The day gets away from me before the sun comes up.” Plus, Bree had needed to burn off her stress from the previous night’s crime scene. She drank more cappuccino. “Thanks for this.”
“You’re welcome.” Dana poured steamed milk into her own mug. “Wow. You’re pale.”
“Kayla was up last night.” Thankfully, Bree had been able to get the little girl back to sleep in her own bed.
“Ugh. I thought she was over that stage,” Dana said.
“They made Mother’s Day cards at school yesterday.” The crack in Bree’s heart deepened.
“Shit. Poor kid.”
“Yeah.” Bree sighed. “A little warning from the school would have been nice. I could have prepared her.”
Dana nodded. “She’s still moving forward in general. There are bound to be small setbacks.”
“I know, but each one breaks my heart. I should have stopped home at bedtime last night. The change in routine set her up for a restless night.” Guilt poked Bree like a sharp stick. She was unprepared to be a parent. She felt like a pinch hitter who’d never played baseball. Even when she did her best to make the right decision, she sometimes failed miserably.
“You can’t be with her 24/7,” Dana said. “It’s not possible for anyone to never be away from their kids.”
“I know.” But Bree didn’t have to like it. She turned toward the doorway. “I’m going to shower.”
“Put on some lipstick!” Dana called after her. “You look like a corpse.”
Bree carried her cup with her upstairs and finished her cappuccino in the shower. After blasting her hair with the dryer for a few minutes, she dressed in dark-brown tactical cargoes and a uniform shirt. She removed her gun from the biometric safe in the nightstand and slid it into the holster on her hip. She secured her backup piece in an ankle holster.
She sat on the edge of the bed and put on her socks.
“Aunt Bree,” a small voice said.
Bree looked up. Kayla stood in the doorway. The little girl was teary-eyed. A chubby white-and-black pointer mix stood at her side. The dog’s worried eyes shifted back and forth from Bree to the child’s face. Still in her pajamas, Kayla dragged her stuffed pig by one leg. A memory slammed into Bree’s mind: her sister, Erin, age four, clutching her stuffed bunny as they listened to their parents fight. A short while later, their father had shot their mother, then turned the gun on himself while the children hid. Bree blinked away the image. She couldn’t let the past drag her backward when she was needed in the present.