Page 3 of 4th Silence
She grabs a dish towel from the counter and wets a corner before dabbing at her skirt. “It’s nothing. Forget I said anything.”
The phone continues blaring at Haley’s desk. “Tell me before Mom gets here.”
She pauses in her ministrations. “Mom’s coming?”
“She’s revived the Silent Night murder case with her club.”
Meg processes this. “I saw her on the news last night. It’s good she’s bringing light to it again. We should help.”
I don’t disagree. I just can’t imagine how I’ll allocate resources to it. We run on a shoestring budget. There’s no payoff in this kind of investigation—the reward the family offered thirty years ago is no longer available. Unless they were to hire us to look into it, it’s a freebie.
I’m not heartless, but those don’t pay the bills. We won’t be able to help anyone if we go bankrupt.
Meg reads my mind. “You know we have to do this. Help Tiffany. If we solve the case, it will make the news. We’ll get more paying clients from it.”
The dead plague me. I haven’t been right since my first cold case at the Bureau. It’s still unsolved.
My sister’s pleading, bloodshot eyes weigh on me. I set both cups on the counter, anticipating ringing Jerome’s neck. “What did Jerome ask you to do?”
She starts to reply, but the back door flies open, and our mother rushes in like the blizzard raging outside, bringing a gust of snow and cold with her. “I’m here!” She whips past the kitchen door with stacks of file boxes on a wheeled cart. She sees us out of the corner of her eye and backpedals, blustering into the kitchen and filling it with her energy.
Her face is flushed. The ringing phone stops and starts again. “I’ve gone viral on TikTok.” Pride laces her voice. “I used your number for people to call with any information on the case.” She dumps a box into my arms, pushes her hood back, and removes her gloves, grinning like it’s the best day ever. “Pour me some coffee, Meg.” Her gaze tracks to me. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
2
Meg
* * *
“You gave out our office number?” Charlie asks in that quiet, steady tone that means death to all.
Our mother—the woman who can’t resist a cold case—sails past, wheeling her cart stacked high with boxes behind her.
“Of course,” she says, as if Charlie is the irrational one for even asking. “I couldn’t exactly use my cell. Your father would kill me.”
“I might kill you.”
On cue, the phone rings, the repetitive noise blaring from the receptionist’s desk and the conference room. I sometimes have nightmares about that sound. It’s why I tend to work with earbuds in. The bleeping drives me half mad and now pulls me from the oncoming storm between the two women I love most.
I fall in step behind Mom and give Charlie the here-we-go look.
In the conference room, I glance at the device sitting on the credenza. Three lines blink red like an exclamation mark at the fact no one has picked up the calls.
“At what point,” Charlie says, “did I think it was a good idea to get multiple lines?”
At this, I laugh.
Mom gestures at the handset still sitting in the cradle. “Is Haley not here? Someone should get that. They might be tipsters.”
Or lunatics.
“Gee, Mom,” Charlie says, “perhaps we should have discussed that very thing before you released our number to the media. And, no, Haley isn’t. Car trouble. The calls will go to voicemail. And, if we lose our assistant over this, I will kill you. This stunt just earned her a bigger Christmas bonus. And you’re paying it.”
Yikes. I can’t remember the last time I saw Charlie this steamed at our mother.
The two lock eyes in a brutal stare-down. I have to give my sister credit for holding her temper. Anyone else would have skid marks by now.
“Alrighty.” I smack my palms together. “What have we got here?”
