Page 26 of What We May Be

Chapter Nine

Sean woke reluctantly, the pounding in his head amplified by the pounding on his motel room door. Groaning, he cracked open an eye and glanced at the bedside clock glowing six on the dot. Way too fucking early after a long night and a bottle of scotch. Rolling onto his stomach, he covered his head with a pillow and attempted to ignore the world.

The world knocked again.

Did everyone in Hanover know where he was staying?

Probably. He had forgotten how fast word traveled in a small town. Even with much of Hanover’s population rotating each academic year, the homegrown locals gossiped. But would any of the locals wake him at this ungodly hour? With that authoritative knock? He didn’t think so, which meant either Trevor or HPD.

Possibly Charlie.

It had been late when she’d dropped him off at the hotel last night. There were still questions that needed answers and a similar conversation to be had with and an apology to be made to Trevor. But despite the dark circles under Charlie’s eyes last night, they’d seemed warmer, a touch brighter when they’d left the cemetery, and an immeasurable weight had lifted off Sean’s chest. He’d given her the apology she deserved, and she’d offered an apology of her own. For what, he had no idea, but he was sure her sins could be no worse than his.

The past ones, at least.

Charlie’s voice floated out of the dark. “Sean, it’s me. Open up.”

He tossed aside the pillow and levered onto his elbows, listening intently, not sure if what he’d heard was real or a dream. But then the knocking came again, closer, against the sliding glass door of the bedroom, followed by Charlie’s words, also closer… and louder. “I know it’s early, Sean, but wake up.”

Grimacing, he rolled to the side of the bed, switched on the lamp, and swung his feet to the floor. Padding to the door, he pulled aside the slatted blinds and, squinting into the dark, saw Charlie standing on the tiny patio outside, her face illuminated by her phone light. She looked as tired as he felt, but there was a giant cup with a coffee logo on it in her free hand.

He pushed back the blinds, opened the door, and beckoned her inside. She entered and thrust the cup in his direction. “Drink,” she ordered, then moved around him and his motel room, pulling clothes out of the dresser and tossing them on the bed, then flipping on lights and running water in the bathroom.

Caffeine waking his brain, he was on the verge of asking what was going on when the telltale rattle of the ibuprofen bottle he always carried greeted his ears. Sweet relief. Charlie returned, exchanging the coffee for a glass of water and three tablets. He downed the water and pills, handed the glass back to her with a mumbled “Thanks,” then reclaimed the coffee.

With each sip of brew, the fog cleared more, and he noticed Charlie was dressed impeccably for the hour. Not police blues but professional—heels, pant suit, a green silk top—and as she moved, her shiny badge and holstered weapon were visible on her hip. Looking beyond her attire, Sean observed her rigid posture, the deep crease between her eyes, and the precise and methodical way she invaded his space. Efficient yet vibrating with anxious energy.

“There’s been another death,” he surmised. “A murder.” No shying away from that now. If there was another death, and if she was involving him, then it was connected to Jeff’s case, which was no longer a suicide.

“Shower and dress.” She took the coffee from him and downed a giant gulp, scowling. She’d never been a fan of it black. “We’re needed at the crime scene.” Confirming his speculation. But that didn’t explain the strange, edgy energy radiating off her. This was more than professional Charlie; something had triggered a personal response.

“You knew the victim.” When she didn’t respond, he asked, “Who was it?”

“Julian Hirsch.”

“Who’s Julian Hirsch?”

“A professor at HU and Tracy Hirsch’s husband.”

“Who’s Tracy Hirsch?” he said, sensing he wasn’t going to like the answer. Which came to him the next second. “Wait, Tracy? As in—”

Charlie nodded. “Trevor’s ex-wife.”

* * *

Sean trailed Charlie up the steps of a massive Southern colonial style house, the morning sun glinting off the wide white columns. Abel stood on the porch beside Tracy, a petite brunet dressed in nurse’s scrubs. Sean recognized her from the engagement photos of her and Trevor he’d downloaded in one of his check-up sweeps before he’d stopped doing them. Tracy’s smiling face in those photos was nothing like the expression she wore now. As her red-rimmed eyes cut to Charlie, grieving widow and spitting mad both played across her face, and Sean would bet every last cent in his bank account that Charlie was the last person Tracy wanted to see right then.

“What are you doing here?” she spat in Charlie’s direction.

Definitely not who Tracy wanted to see.

“Now, Tracy,” Abel cajoled. “Charlie’s the best detective we’ve got. You want her on this case.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Tracy.” Charlie’s genuine sympathy in the face of Tracy’s contempt was admirable. “We’ll find out who did this.”

And did nothing to blunt the harsh edge of Tracy’s anger and grief. “You can start by talking to my ex-husband.”

Sean stepped forward, next to Charlie. “What’s Trevor got to do with this?”

---