“Yeah. I know.”
“We need something tangible. We need a place to start looking.”
I raise a brow. “Well, we have his phone. Shouldn’t we start there?”
He chuckled. “We should, and we will. But it was in their possession, and they had the passcode. So I’m assuming they’ve already given it a once over.”
“You know what they say about assumptions.”
He tilts his head in acknowledgement. “True.”
“And to be honest, I don’t have a better idea. His phone would be my first suggestion. He rarely answered calls if we were together. And if he was on a call when I walked into the room, he’d end it abruptly. Maybe we can look at the numbers he was calling. Or maybe he’s got a contact that says Sexy Sidepiece or some such bullshit. After all, he kept his phone locked. Not like I was going to see it, right?”
I realize I’ve been ranting, my words popping out of my mouth with the force of my anger.
“All good points,” he says. “In fact, that may be why they gave me the phone and didn’t just send the video.”
“Because they think one of us might notice something odd, whereas they might overlook it?”
“It’s as good a guess as any.”
“So what should we do? Go sit on the sofa and start paging through it?”
“Yes,” he says. “But not now. We need to get some sleep. And I want to go to Stark Security in the morning.”
“The alarm system,” I say. “They shouldn’t have been able to disable the safety protocols so easily.”
“That, but also the phone.”
I shake my head, not understanding.
“If they can do an exact clone of it, you and I can both have a copy to review and compare notes on. And I’ll ask them to run all the incoming and outgoing phone numbers through their databases to see if anything pops.”
“Got it.”
“If nothing else, we should pretty quickly have a sense of whether the phone is a dead end on leads or not. But even if we find something actionable, it’s still only one branch of the plan.”
I nod, liking the way he’s thinking methodically. It makes me feel in my element. After working as a legal assistant at a law firm for the last seven years, I’ve gained an understanding of how much you can accomplish if you stay focused on your lane.
“So the other branch is the hotel.”
He reaches out and taps the end of my nose, something he used to do in college. I pretended like it irritated me, but it never had. What had irritated was that it was his only touch. At least until that one night when—
“—the files.”
I clear my throat, hoping my cheeks aren’t bright red. “Sorry. What?”
“If he really was using a comped room at his friend’s hotel, that’s someone we should talk to. Can you check the client files and get us a name?”
“I shouldn’t—not without clearing it with my boss—but I will.”
“Good.”
“Right. Okay. I’ll go into the office tomorrow. I need to tell them about Mel, anyway.”
“And you need to take a week’s leave.”
I swallow and nod. Under normal circumstances, I’d be surrounded by family and friends for the next week or so as I planned my husband’s memorial and tried to get myself centered.
As it is, I’m going to spend the time I should be mourning playing private detective. And to be honest, I’m okay with that. I’m not someone who can sit and wallow in grief or pain or loss. I need to do something.
If I can’t bring him back, then maybe I can at least find answers.
“And then we go to the hotel,” I say, continuing down this path.
“Yes, but we can talk about that tomorrow once we know we have an address. For all you know, the guy never actually called for consult, much less hired the firm.”
He has a point. “In that case, what will we do?”
To my surprise, Red laughs. “We worry about that tomorrow.” He stands, holding a hand to help me up. “We both need rest.”
“It’s not that late.”
“Do you want me to refresh your drink? Might help you sleep.”
I should say no. I’ve had enough already. But I can feel the weight of the day in my bones, and I know how elusive sleep will be. “Yeah,” I say. “A whiskey would be great.”
But when he goes to the bar and meets me at my bedroom door with a glass, I can’t help but think that it’s not liquid comfort I crave, but the warm solace of falling asleep in his arms.
Chapter Seven
Sure enough, I toss in bed, unable to fall asleep despite the whiskey and the long, hot shower I took before sliding between the sheets. I’d thought a shower and washing my hair would clear my head, but it didn’t work. No matter what I try to think about, I can’t shake the image of Mel’s face being submerged over and over and over in that tub.
I keep my lips pressed tight together to keep my whimpers to myself. Before, I’d been able to skirt this reality, foregoing thinking about what happened to the man I’d once loved enough to marry by burying my thoughts in the details of how to find the killer.
But we’re not planning now. We’re supposed to be resting. Sleeping. But it’s in the dark that demons come. Not the supernatural kind, but the ones that live in your thoughts and haunt your dreams.
Stop it. Just stop it!
I roll over, smooshing up my pillow as I try to get comfortable. Red’s not asleep either. Even though the guest bath separates my bedroom from his, I can still hear the low rumble of whatever he’s watching on television.
I half-smile, remembering all the late nights in college. He and Red and I shared an apartment for sophomore and junior years, then part of our senior year, too, before Red decided to graduate early and join the military.
Those days are among my favorites. Study sessions with popcorn and root beer, then weekends with the real thing. We’d watch movies and hang out or just sit and talk for ages, especially me and Red. Mel used to fall asleep on the sofa, but Red and I could analyze a movie to death. For that matter, we could talk pretty much anything to death.
Back then I hadn’t an inkling that I’d end up married to Mel. I loved him, of course, but I’d loved Red, too. They’d been friends since high school in Texas, and they’d rescued me freshman year when I was trying to balance on crutches and carry my books. Even better, they hadn’t laughed when I’d explained how I’d ended up on crutches in the first place—by ignominiously tumbling off a curb when I’d seen Bruce Willis walking straight toward me in Santa Monica.
They’d been my friends—nothing more. Especially not Mel. How could I think about him romantically when I’d had a secret crush on Red?
That, of course, was never meant to be.
I toss and turn, trying to get comfortable. Trying to erase the memories and the regrets so that I can finally get some sleep. At some point, I must have dozed off, because when I float up to consciousness again, the television is off and the room is dark and silent.
I roll over and check my phone, expecting it to be almost morning. Instead, it’s barely past two. I groan, then lay back again, trying to drift off. But once more, sleep eludes me, my mind too filled with a cacophony of thoughts.