Page 72 of Sinful Promises

“I think I have some information about a robbery that happened a long time ago.”

“Righty-ho.” The police officer picked up the phone on his desk, and a short while later I was seated in a tiny room across from Sergeant Donovan—a middle-aged police officer who either forgot to shave that morning or was going for the rugged look but was yet to master it. “What have you got?”

“Do you want the short story or the long story?”

He cocked his head. “I’ll take the short story any day.”

“Okay. May I get some things out of my pack first?”

He nodded.

I leaned over to my side, plucked out the photo of Rob and placed it on the table. “This man’s name is Robert Mathieson.” I unfolded the newspaper and pointed at the article in the corner. “He robbed this jewelry store in Toowoomba twenty-five years ago.” I opened the velvet pouch and spilled the necklace onto the table. “This is one of the items he stole.”

Sergeant Donovan looked at the items and then at me. “Okay. Now I need to hear the long story.”

I smiled at him. “I thought you might say that.”

“Just start at the beginning.”

“Well, there’s actually two beginnings. My birth, and my recent reunion with my mother. I’ll start with my mother.”

Over the course of the next hour, I summarized the key points for Sergeant Donovan. He was an excellent listener and jotted down several pages of notes. He asked a lot of questions about where we’d lived in my childhood, and fortunately for him, my photographic memory came in handy.

“When I found that necklace, it all slotted into place. I confronted Mother with my assumptions, and she surprised me by admitting it was true. Trust me. She’s very good at lying. So now, here I am.”

He held up a finger. “Let me just check on something first.” He reached for the newspaper. “May I?”

“Yes, of course.”

Plucking the newspaper off the desk, he left me alone in the room with my clanging thoughts. But it wasn’t my rotten couple of days with Mother and her fucked-up idea of what being a family meant that burgeoned in my brain. Nor was it what I had to do once I left here.

It was Roman.

In particular, it was how he spoke about his family. He loved them. And although I’d never met them, I already knew that they all loved him from the way he spoke of them, and how they looked after each other. I wanted to see that.

No, I needed to see that.

But most of all, I needed to see him.

My thoughts drifted to that one perfect night when he’d said he loved me. The way he’d said it, loaded with deep sincerity, suggested it was true.

It had to be. He would never say that if he didn’t mean it.

I needed to know why he’d acted like he did when he found me in his bed. His rotten rejection had hurt my feelings, but it didn’t diminish my love.

For my own sanity, I had to tell him I loved him—one thousand percent, crazy, head-over-heals loved him. No matter what the outcome.

And as soon as I sorted all this shit out with Mother, that was exactly what I was going to do. I still had ten weeks left on my visa. First chance I got, I was getting on a plane to London.

The door cracked open, and Sergeant Donovan entered the room along with a middle-aged woman. She leaned forward, offering her hand. “Hello. I’m Detective Pauline Flanagan. Sergeant Donovan tells me you have quite a story.”

Detective Flanagan was a woman who looked wise beyond her years. Her eyes were bright and inquisitive, confirming she was the right person to talk to. She sat and whistled at the necklace. “That’s a beauty. Any idea why your mother never sold it?”

“No. Lord knows she could have used the money. My guess is she was too scared.”

“And so she should be. Did you know the jewelry store owner never recovered from that coma? He died three months later.”

I clutched my hand over my mouth. “Oh no. That poor man.”

---