Page 56 of His

We shuffle aside as a trio of suits push past us, coffees in one hand, computers in the other. The coffee shop is loud and crowded with both tourists and locals.

“Ben, this is Sabine. Sabine, this is Ben Thomas. He was the lead detective on Chloe’s case.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“Sit,” Ben gestures to the booth.

We slide in and order coffees.

“How’s retired life?” Astor asks.

“Boring.”

Astor smiles, nods. It’s apparent the two are friends. “People like us don’t settle well.”

Ben’s gaze flickers to me. A warning glance? Astor will never settle, sweetheart?

He refocuses on Astor. “Okay, I’m intrigued. What’s going on?”

“I want to reopen Chloe’s case.”

“No.”

Astor scoffs. “Why?

“One, I’m retired.”

“So you’ll connect me with someone else and then I’ll pay you to work pro bono with him. What’s two?”

“That case almost drove you over the edge, Astor.”

“Have you lost a child, Ben?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t understand the length a father will go to get justice for their murdered child.”

“Chloe wasn’t murdered according to the evidence provided and the medical report.”

“Fuck the evidence.”

Ben snorts, folds his hands on the table and leans forward. “It doesn’t work like that, Astor, you know that.”

“I know that someone pushed my daughter into that manhole.”

“No you don’t. We’ve been through this a million times.” He leans back, scrutinizing us. “I know you well enough that you wouldn’t be here, wasting our time, if you didn’t have new information. Tell me what it is.”

“Chloe wasn’t mine.”

Ben’s brows pop. “Really?”

Astor retells the story to the retired detective, and as he does, Ben remains still, unemotional, but incredibly attentive. Me, on the other hand? I become uneasy at the desperate tone in Astor’s voice. He isn’t thinking straight. He’s running on emotions, not logic. It’s embarrassingly apparent that Astor has no real reason for this visit, other than he can’t let Chloe go. As I watch him speak, the flush that rises up his neck, the pitch in his usually stoic tone, I worry that he’s becoming unhinged and sliding back into the old Astor. The one I don’t care to ever meet again.

“While this information is shocking,” Ben says, twisting his empty coffee cup around in his fingertips, “it’s not enough to reopen a case. Astor, you know as well as I do, the only reason a criminal case was opened in the first place is because you used your influence to do so. They ruled it an accident almost immediately.”

“It wasn’t an accident, Ben. A lock of her hair was missing, which was meant to be a message, or maybe a threat, to me.”

“It couldn’t be proven, Astor. We—I—tried to link the lock of hair to the hundred names you provided me. Nothing connected. We even searched the database and studied old cases where the killer took a piece of the victim's hair. Nothing linked back to you or Valerie. Also, Chloe had a history of cutting her own hair. Lastly, the medical examiner’s report stated that her cause of death was a brain hemorrhage, congruent with a fatal fall.” He takes a deep breath. “Astor, there has to be a legal basis to reopen a case—you know that. A real, tangible piece of evidence that would warrant us to file a motion. Do you have that?”

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