Page 82 of From the Ashes
"I doubt it. You don't miss much." I accepted them anyway. They were mostly brief letters, asking for progress reports on the 'assignment' with the occasional mention of payment. I read each one, some twice. I held the paper to the light, but saw no watermark or other special markings. "There's nothing to identify the killer in these."
"True," he said, although I got the feeling he was holding something back.
I looked again. "I suppose they tell us a little of the sort of person he is. Or she."
"Go on."
"I think it's a man. The hand is neat but sharp. There are no feminine loops or flourishes."
"Almost too sharp." He leaned forward and pointed to the capital letters. All had small but noticeable ink blotches. "It's as if the writer thought for a moment after putting pen to paper, but before writing. As if they were consciously altering the style and shape of their letters."
I saw it now too. "So that doesn't eliminate a female writer."
"Perhaps not. It does indicate that the author is attempting to hide their identity. Because he knows we'll recognize his hand?" He moved his chair alongside mine and leaned in to read. It took me a moment to gather my scattered wits together and concentrate.
"The sentence formation isn't feminine," I said. "It's quite abrupt, and to the point."
"Yes."
"That probably rules out Lady Harcourt, after all."
"And leaves in all the men." He stretched out his legs and rubbed his forehead.
"You're tired," I said.
"Frustrated with the investigation and this arrangement…it can't go on."
"Do you mean us both living here?" I hadn't thought it too terrible of late, but that could have been because we were both preoccupied and busy.
"No, I meant you having to remain inside. You should be out shopping, riding, and doing things young women do at this time of year."
"It hasn't been so bad, but thank you for the consideration. I think Dr. Fawkner has it much worse."
"He deserves it."
"We can't keep him forever. And we must consider the supernaturals too. It's almost Christmas and they'll want to be home."
He drew in his legs and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his head bowed. His hair hung loose around his face, the dark twists obscuring his eyes. I ached to touch his shoulder to offer some comfort.
That thought shocked me to the core. When had I gone from hating him to caring? I didn't want to care. I didn't want to forgive. I didn't want to be at the mercy of his whims again.
I stood and looked away, but my heart remained heavy. "You know there's an easy solution. One that will draw the killer out."
"No, Charlie," he said with quiet conviction. "That is not a solution."
"It is. It's the only one we have."
He got to his feet. "I said no."
I lifted my chin and couldn't help the smile that stretched my lips. "You are no longer the leader. You can't order me about." I had him now.
He opened his mouth and shut it again. He seemed to be warring with himself. I wondered if he wanted to remind me that he could lock me in my room, or that he owned the house and was therefore still master here, but decided those were unwise words considering our history.
"You don't play fair," was all he said.
I laughed. "Says the man who wrote the book on devious play."
The corner of his mouth lifted. He took a step toward me so I quickly retreated to the door and opened it. He wouldn't attempt anything foolish where others could see.
