Page 75 of The Devil's Torment

He blinks a few times, glancing from me to Barron then back to me. “I’m sorry about your sister-in-law. My condolences for your loss. And yes, there are one or two similarities between that drawing and me, but I can assure you I’ve never driven a cab, and I don’t know anything about a murder.” He chuckles. “Nor am I an Arsenal fan. My father would disown me. We’re Chelsea fans through and through.”

“What is it you do, Mr. Earnshaw?”

“I’m in property. I buy, renovate, and sell. It affords me a nice life.” He gestures around the kitchen. “As you can see, I have no need for a second job.”

“No.” I rub two fingers over my mouth. “Are you married?”

“Goodness me, no.” He laughs again. “I’m committed to the bachelor life. There are far too many pretty ladies out there to tie myself to just one.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” I murmur. “Well, thanks for your time. I appreciate it.”

“Of course. I only wish I could have helped.”

This time, it’s my turn to laugh. “Trust me, Mr. Earnshaw, you would not have wanted to be the man in that picture.”

He turns a little pale. “Perhaps not.”

“We’ll see ourselves out.” Once we’re on the other side of the door, I turn to Barron. “Dead end.”

“Worth a try.”

“Yeah.” The problem is all I see ahead of me is dead ends and no answers. I climb back into the car and grimace at Victoria. “It’s not him.”

Her shoulders sag, and she tilts her head to one side, sighing heavily. “It was worth a shot.”

Nodding, I gather her hands in mine and rest them both in my lap. “Sol, let’s go home.”

ChapterTwenty-Six

VICKY

Nicholas has taken the dead-end lead in Windsor last week harder than I have, and it’s brought all my old demons to the forefront of my mind again. The idea that he’s feral for uncovering the truth behind Beth’s murder is both a comfort and a curse. I’ll never be able to ask him if he still has feelings for Beth, and that’s why he loses his mind every time we get a lead, however tenuous. I’m simply too fearful of the answer.

With all my heart, I wish the man I saw in that café in Windsor had been the taxi driver. Then we’d have been able to find out what truly happened, put all this behind us, and move on with our lives. I don’t mean forget my sister. I never could. I loved her more than anyone else in the world, but her ghost hangs over me, stopping me from living the life I desperately want to believe I deserve.

I remember watchingCrimewatchwith Eloise once, and there was this photofit on there of a woman who’d burgled a jewelry store and stolen thousands of pounds worth of watches. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have said with at least an eighty percent certainty that the woman was Eloise. We’d had such a laugh about it at the time. Eventually, they found the woman, and when they compared her to the photofit, there was hardly any similarity at all. Like Nicholas said, memories are fallible, and our brains tell us things that aren’t true all the time.

I’m gutted, though.

The weather is still milder than usual for late November. Despite that, there’s a brisk wind coming from the southwest, blowing the remains of the leaves that have clung valiantly to the branches and leaving a carpet of browns, golds, and the odd splash of orange across Oakleigh’s front lawn.

Nicholas sidles up behind me and wraps one arm across my abdomen. He’s been distant this week, and I tell myself it’s work related, even though I know it isn’t. Sometimes lying to myself is better than facing the truth. We’ve been married almost a month, and in that time, I’ve run the gamut of emotions from elated and joyous to downright depressed. It’s exhausting. The push and pull. The wishing and hoping. The pressure of guilt that sits on my chest because I’m living my sister’s life.

“It’s a great day for sailing.” He nuzzles my neck. “As long as we wrap up warm.”

I twist in his arms. “You brought the boat back from Croatia?”

“No. I have a boat here, too. She’s moored at a yacht club about ten miles away.” A shadow crosses his face and he averts his gaze, staring through the window behind me. “She was my mother’s.” His eyes come back to me. “Did I tell you she used to love to sail? That it was her passion for it that made me fall in love with it, too?”

“You didn’t, no.” Granted, he rarely talks about his mother, but when he does, it’s always accompanied by a darkness that descends on him. It’s not like grief. It’s different. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s as if he despises her.

That can’t be right, though. I still struggle to read my husband. Often, he’s a closed book, like now. The shadow has gone, replaced with a blank canvas. A nothingness. In the next breath, it’s as though he’s wiped the slate clean, and he gives me a brilliant smile that causes all of the muscles in my belly to contract.

“So, Mrs. De Vil. Want to come sailing with me?”

I return his smile, pushing away unhappy thoughts and letting the happy ones take center stage. “I’d love to.”

The wind whips against my cheeks as we walk along the dock, and I stuff my hands into the pockets of my thick jacket. It’ll be colder once we get out onto open water, but I don’t care. There’s something about being on a boat that makes Nicholas come alive, and I am here for it.

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