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knew the victim, or the door was open. Anyone remember how the victim was left like?”
“No signs of rape were present.”
“Not in the state she was in. This wasn’t passion of any sorts… If it was, it’s the most deluded
form I’ve ever come across. Her body wasn’t hid—just left in pieces in her bedroom. Whoever did
this, wanted her gone, but not without showing his deed to those linked to her. What was present
of her shows no signs of fingerprints. They left the murder weapon behind for Christ sake know-
ing it was as clean as a nun’s mouth. No DNA out of the ordinary within the whole property!” My
throat curls in fluster even though I withhold hints to cushion my outburst.
“How big is the house again?” Julian queries while poking part of his lower lip with a pen.
My head rattles in estimate. “The family’s got riches. I’d say more than a quarter of a mile on
either side; however, the length stretches just below a half.”
The blond puffs out his amazement, but manages to still swivel on his task. He sits polar oppo-
site of me at the table, but his scuffing pen riffs enough that I can hear it.
“Please don’t negate this just yet. But the thatcher…” He awaited my haughty sigh. “Let me
pose this, yeah? Alright. The house is quite large; meaning not much ground in thatching could
be done in one day. Believe it or not, I went to talk to the housemaster myself. The thatcher comes
from nine A.M. to sunset five out of the seven days in the week. Plenty of time to survey the house
and check out how to plot this plan he has. He gets a break, before you interject your nonsense.
He also was said to have a personal relationship with the one killed. ‘Lovers’ is pushing what’s not
there, but they held attraction.”
“What I’m hearing is that you feel the thatcher has gotten into a secret relationship with the
daughter of a wealthy man, they’re star-crossed and all that Shakespeare crap… Out on a limb,
you think she told him it’ll never work and he went on a rage and destroyed her? We’ll throw out
background that he’s been working for them for about a week and assume he sought to kill her.”
Breaking out of my glare at Marcus, those witnessing slink in their pivot chairs to try to bend out
of the constriction in the air.
“Look, if you seriously think taking this case in a whole other direction is the best thing to do,
don’t let me stop you. Just know you’re going to have to start digging from drought,” the blond
rivets his confidence, barely noticing its slither to pride—abused pride when I’m finished with him.
“Not if I’m on the right path,” I retort.
“So… Has everyone been caught up and, uh, is ready to split up and pick apart this mystery?”
Troye chirps. His blue eyes crash around the room at the pricks of agreement and confirmation
he’s received; relieved to warm to blighting freeze we’ve hung to the conference room. Every day,
this routine fledges out, but everyone’s too gritty to become wont.
Slowly, heads twist back to their previous task, and survivors of the discussion resume minor
chores while waiting for more evidence to be scoped out. Julian hovers around his office for a min-
ute with the notebook from the meeting flexed in his padded fingers. That’s a nicer way of saying
sausage sized.
“You’re plotting. I thought we agreed that you thinking is like peeing in the wind.”
He deadpans my wit. “Shouldn’t you be saving your job? You know, once our boss finally gets
fed up with your colorful nature and unorthodox techniques and fires you?” Not surprising he’d
say that.
My smile is flat, creases lack ingenuity. “If you’re thinking of tracking down that poor boy and
interrogating him about a scarring event he’s fallen into, I’ll pinch your nipples and.. possibly write
you a strongly worded letter.”