Page 28 of 4th Silence
“So where does that leave us?” My voice betrays the vulnerability swallowing me up.
“It leaves us exactly where we are,” he says. “On opposite sides of a closed case. I’ve always thought I could trust you. That we were on the same page. Now?” He strides to the door without answering the question. He doesn’t have to. He tries to hide the hurt in his voice, but I still hear it. I agreed to stay away from Mary, and I didn’t. I broke his trust. “You can drop off those boxes at my office tomorrow.”
I watch him leave, the words I want to call out locked in my throat. Meg grasps my hand, and it spurs me into action. I’m not going down without a fight. Not for the case—for us.
I chase him down the hall. “I thought you were different. That you respected me and my work.”
He pauses, his profile sharp against the glow of the reception area’s light. For one suspended moment, I think he might turn back and embrace me, but he only glances over his shoulder. “I thought the same about you.”
As he exits, I stand rooted in place, staring at the spot where he stood, my mind whirling with a thousand scenarios—what I should have said, what I could have done, whether anything would have changed his mind.
“Charlie?” Meg’s voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts as she comes up next to me. “You okay?”
I blink, forcing hot tears away. “No.” She guides me back to the conference room. I slump into a chair. “But I guess feelings don’t matter.”
“They do matter.” She pulls up a chair beside me. Her eyes, so reminiscent of mine, search my face. “He’s out of line and a bastard for choosing his job over you.”
“His job means everything to him.”
“He’s a fool, then.”
I accept her hug, a few tears slipping down my face. “What am I going to do?”
“This isn’t over. I’ll go through everything tonight and have Matt take the boxes to JJ’s office tomorrow. We keep going, regardless of what JJ and the mayor want. In the end, when we solve this thing, they’ll be sorry.”
She wants to take my mind off JJ’s betrayal and get me to focus on something I can control. Classic Meg. Next, she’ll offer me some of her gummy bears or a pot brownie. Maybe I need one. “Without the bag, without official backing, without?—”
“Without fear of stepping on official toes,” she finishes. “We never needed permission before to solve a cold case, and we don’t now. Mary Hartman’s expensive accessory disappeared that night for a reason. It has to be connected to the murder. I’m sure of it.”
Her phone buzzes loudly across the table, displaying Jerome’s name and a photo of him playing his guitar. Meg’s eyes flick from it to me, her hand hovering indecisively before she deliberately turns the screen face down.
At least this is something that can distract me from my damning feelings. “Everything okay?”
Her fingers drum on the table. “It’s complicated.”
I raise an eyebrow, studying the unusual flicker of uncertainty on her face. “When isn’t it with you two? What’s going on?”
She tugs a strand of hair, twisting it around her finger. A debate rages behind her eyes. “We should focus on you and JJ.”
Another classic Meg move—deflect with a redirection worthy of a magician’s assistant. I wiggle my fingers at her. “Spill.”
She huffs loudly, grabbing a pencil to doodle on a notepad. Once, twice, three times around a circle, each rotation digging deeper into the paper. “Jerome asked me to marry him two days ago.”
The words hang between us, and I try to process them. Perfect. A fresh wound and now a surprise proposal bomb. Better to focus on Meg rather than JJ. “As in…marriage? Jerome Metcalfe? The guy who showed up to my birthday dinner wearing two different shoes?”
“That’s him,” she confirms with a slight grin that lights up her face, then fades like the last sparks of a firecracker. “He’s been different lately. More serious.”
I’ve noticed a few changes—Jerome with his honey-blond hair neatly tied back, his clean-shaven face, his presence more adult-like. A far cry from the disheveled artist who floats through Meg’s life, trailing the scent of marijuana and creative chaos.
“What prompted this?” I ask.
“The music store offered him an assistant manager position. He’s showing me dozens of fixer-uppers and condos.” Meg laughs, a hint of hysteria in it. “Can you believe it? Jerome, who once lived in his van for six months because he ‘forgot’ to pay rent, wants to buy real estate. And he wants me to be his wife.”
Her phone buzzes again, and we both watch it vibrate on the table. “You haven’t said yes?”
She gestures helplessly. “I panicked and said I needed time to think. I’ve been dodging his calls since.”
“But you love him.” Not that that’s a reason to get married, but it sure helps.
