Page 62 of 4th Silence
17
Charlie
* * *
Before the muffled ringtone breaks the silence, I’ve gone down an uncomfortable rabbit hole with Alex.
The basement lights cast a blue-white glow across his hockey memorabilia, giving the mounted jerseys and framed photographs an almost museum-like quality. He’s slipped his feet into comfy loafers.
His shoulder brushes mine as he points to the signed Gretzky stick mounted behind glass over the fireplace mantel. “My pride and joy. Dad bought it for me when I was nine.”
I could not be more bored, but I have to keep him preoccupied to give Meg time to check the cottage, so I smile and murmur just enough to keep him talking.
He moves onto a beat-up black puck encased in a glass box. “This one is from Ovechkin’s rookie season.” His voice drops to a reverent level. “Got it at an auction last year. Cost more than my first car.”
I bite my tongue before asking if the car had a soul. I have no idea who Ovechkin is, and I have to keep the sarcasm out of my voice when discussing a puck being worth so much. “Wow.” Feeble. I need at least fifteen more minutes. Can I buy Meg that much more time? “That’s impressive.”
Alex steps closer, his cologne—woodsy and expensive—filling the space between us. “Most women don’t appreciate sports memorabilia. You know what they say about women who understand the value of a good slapshot.”
I force a laugh, though I suspect there’s a double entendre there. Something sexual? Probably. Ugh.
My mind switches tracks fast. The photos and layouts from Mom’s boxes. Dimensions. Blood stains. Floor plans. Anything to keep me from rolling my eyes at his horrible pickup lines. “I’m no expert.” Not about sports, anyway. Criminal minds? That’s another story. “But I appreciate passion, and I can see that if I want to learn more about hockey, you’re the guy to teach me.” Bait, line, sinker.
The words hang in the air as Alex holds my gaze for far too long. “Passion is underrated. We could all use more of it, don’t you think?”
Oh, boy. I smile and shift toward a collection of other pucks in glass cases. “And these? Tell me their stories.”
He sidles up beside me, invading my personal space. I force my knees to lock so I don’t step away from him. Act engaged. Meanwhile, I’m calculating square footage and trajectory angles. “They’re all game-winners. That one’s from the ’98 Stanley Cup.” His fingers graze mine as he points, the contact deliberate and lingering.
He launches into a story about acquiring the puck, and I chance another glance around the basement’s wide-open space. The carpet must have been installed after Tiffany’s murder. The police report mentioned bloodstains on the original flooring, but they’ve been covered up. Neat. Tidy. Like nothing ever happened.
The panic room door, nearly invisible against the back wall, is farther away than I’d expected from where I calculate her body landed. Photos can do that—mislead you, no matter how many, what angles, and how thorough the CSI techs were. Nothing beats standing in the room where the person died.
“What does that door lead to?” I ask, interrupting. “A bathroom?”
Alex huffs, unhappy with the change in subject. His gaze skates across the door, as if he can ignore it and it will disappear. He suspects I know exactly what’s behind it. “That’s the safe room.” He settles on the couch arm, kicking his feet out and crossing them at the ankles. “Mom covered it for a while with a huge tapestry. The ugliest thing I’ve ever seen, but eventually, she took it down. She’s lonely with Dad gone, and my sister and I out on our own. I visit every week, but the rest of the family rarely comes unless they need money or Mom orders us all home. Like she will for Christmas.”
“We both have pushy mothers.” I ease onto the edge of the couch cushion and wonder if I can get him to open the panic room. Probably not. Not without a scalpel or warrant. “It’s nice to get to know you outside of work.” I wave my hand at the hockey memorabilia. “Plus, getting to see this amazing collection is a bonus.”
“You know what I think?” He slides off the arm and onto the couch next to me, causing the cushion to dip. “I think we have more in common than controversial mothers and a passion for hockey. I bet if we dig a bit deeper, we could find a few more common interests that would make for good dinner conversation, don’t you?”
Dinner. God help me. The next words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Does that line typically work for you?”
“Yes.” His smile shines with his ego. “But you’re not typical, are you, Charlize?”
I tone down my instant reaction to cut him off at the knees. “I’ve been called many things, but ‘typical’ isn’t one of them.” I can’t help it. I jump up and walk over to a framed photo of a younger Alex in a team uniform. “Tell me more about your own hockey career.” Let’s talk about something less dangerous, like teenage dreams and concussions.
He chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Not much to tell.” As he talks about his junior traveling team and his dreams of being a hockey star, with pride evident in his voice, I continue to move about the room. Mostly, it’s to keep space between us, but also to pinpoint where Tiffany fell.
When he takes a breath, I point at the panic room door. “Did your family ever need it?”
Alex remains rooted in place. He clears his throat. “No, thank goodness. I, uh, don’t do well in confined spaces.”
I turn, arching a brow. “You’re claustrophobic?”
“Something like that.”
“Sounds like you’re correct about us having more in common. Mine is the result of an incident with Meg locking me in our mother’s cedar chest when we were kids.” A total fabrication. “No one found me for hours. You?”
