Ewan's words rang in her ears. On the outside, Jorja's face told him his last piece of information had no effect on her. A skill she had learned a long time ago when her job placed her in pressured situations—or when she needed to hide from the world. For reasons she didn't quite understand her body suddenly felt necessary to draw on it, triggered into motion, and she could not stop it. It had been years since she last felt the need to withdraw. Inside, her body was once again at war with itself. It was so easy for her mind to slip back into the past. Instinctively she knew she needed to be on guard, even around her best friend, possibly especially around Ewan.
"Jorgie, say something. I told you not to jump to any conclusions. I knew I shouldn't have told you anything." He backed away and swept his hand through his thick dark-brown hair.
"I'm fine, Ewan, and I'm glad you told me. I can see why you would come knocking on my door for answers. But just because he was found dead near my house and my last name is Rose does not mean anything. I didn't kill him. I could never do that."
Her voice was aloof, almost steely. Not because she felt hurt or offended by Ewan suspecting that she was capable of murder, but because she suddenly knew why Myles Brentwood was killed. Challenging the tall stranger had proved to be a huge mistake.
"I know you didn't do it, Jorgie. Like I said, my hand is forced on this one. I want to stay on this case, catch the guy who did this, keep this town safe. And to do that I have to pull out the rulebook. So... I am going to need to ask you to come down to the station and make an official statement. So we can rule you out. Once forensics give us an approximate time of death, it will be easier to rule you out. For all we know it happened while you were at Ann's. Then you'll have an alibi."
"And if it didn't? What if it happened last night while I was sleeping, alone, with no alibi?"
"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, if we get to it, okay? Come on. Jump in. I've got your back. Best to do this quickly before McGuthrey gets wind of it. He's been praying for a juicy story to give him that big break that will finally land him his dream job at the Daily Mail."
But it was already too late. St. Ives was too small for something this big to stay a secret. When they arrived at the St. Ives police station, McGuthrey was already standing on the front steps, camera in hand.
"Unbelievable," Ewan said as he parked his car.
Jorja didn't react.
"It's fine, nothing to worry about. You and I have been friends for donkey's years. This will not be the first time we arrive at the station together. If he asks why you are here, you don't tell him anything, okay. Let's not create any sparks that could cause him to turn it into an inferno. I'll handle it."
Jorja nodded and followed Ewan from the parking lot toward the steps of the main entrance.
McGuthrey didn't waste any time and rushed toward them.
"Reid, do you know who killed Myles Brentwood? How was he killed? Any suspects?"
"Back off, McGuthrey, we don't know anything yet."
"What's the significance of the rose? There's blood on it. Is it his? Is it the murder weapon?"
"I said, back off, McGuthrey. And you shouldn't be going anywhere near the crime scene. You'll contaminate it, might even drop your DNA there, and then we'll link you to the murder."
Ewan's disguised warning gave the eager journalist some pause, but not enough to sway him from pushing his inquiry further.
"Why are you here, Jorja? Are you a suspect?"
"Don't fall for his tricks," Ewan whispered close to Jorja's ear as he gently ushered her toward the door.
She looked back at McGuthrey and flashed him a small smile in amusement.
"That's ridiculous, McGuthrey. I'm here to discuss the security for the upcoming art fair, that's all. Why don't you let Ewan do his job and go take some photos of the bowling club's tenth anniversary instead before I tell your mother you bought another nude sketch from me?"
Her comment sent a flush to the eager reporter's twenty-eight-year-old face and immediately had him back off.
"If you know anything, Reid, I'm the first to know, deal?" he shouted back at Ewan whose wide grin soon broke into laughter.
"Now who knows everything, huh?" he joked as they stepped inside the police station and the door shut behind them.
"The boy had it coming. He's obsessed with nudes. Someone ought to find him a wife before his sins catch up with him."
"Yeah well, perhaps he's holding out for the London girls. Anyway, let's get the ball rolling and get you out of here before Major Crimes get here. I just want to quickly make a phone call. Charlie should not have let anyone near that crime scene yet. Help yourself to some coffee, I'll be quick."
She watched Ewan step into his office to make the call. The station was quiet—most likely because he had all his constables guarding the crime scene. It seemed as if they were there alone.
St. Ives police station was much smaller than those in the larger nearby towns, equipped with just enough officers to service general police incidents. Ewan had started there as a police constable and gradually worked his way up the ranks to detective inspector, the most senior at the station and trained to handle criminal investigations of this kind. But, since murder investigations hardly, if not ever, occurred in their town, it was evident he was anxious not to botch the investigation.
She watched him through the window of his office as he impressed upon his officers at the scene to step up their game. Next to the coffee station, the printer suddenly whirred, startling her into almost spilling her fresh mug of coffee. She fixed her eyes on the machine as it started processing a sheet of paper. Before long it spat out a color copy of Myles Brentwood's bloody body, lying sprawled on his back across the forest path behind her house. She drew in a sharp breath, caught off guard by the next photo that dropped into the printing tray atop the first. His head was covered in blood, his eyes wide and filled with angst, as if he had been frightened when he died and frozen in place.
The next photo delivered a close-up of his neck and a large puncture wound to one side; his left side. Jorja's heart pounded in her chest as she took in the brutality of the crime. She was simultaneously repulsed and overcome with fear. Before long, the printer ejected another printed copy, this time one of the rose that was made entirely from copper. Ewan was right. It was unique and an awe-inspiring piece of art. But her admiration soon turned to disgust as the next photo had zoomed in to the tip of the stem that was covered in blood. Suddenly panic engulfed her as she realized how Myles had died. She slammed her mug onto the table, spilling half of its contents across the coffee tray. She spun around and bolted toward the exit. Her pace quickened and she bumped her hips against the corners of several desks along the way in a desperate attempt to run out of the station.
"Hey, Jorgie. Wait! What's wrong?" Ewan yelled from behind his desk, slamming the phone's receiver down on the desk as he rushed toward her. But she had already found the front door and started running down the steps. In her wake, she heard Ewan running after her, shouting for her to stop. She couldn't. She had to get out of there. Had to run, as fast as she could.
Overcome by emotions she couldn't quite make sense of yet, she ran toward her house, glancing over her shoulder every few strides. Conscious of feeling exposed, she pulled her hoodie over her head, grateful she had decided to wear it that morning instead of her usual neon reflective jacket. She took the cobbled path that led away from the center of town toward the beach. She would zigzag through the fishermen's cottages and cross the stretch of bluff to where it met up with the other side of the woodland that bordered her house. Once she reached it she would stay clear of the path and find a way through the dense trees, avoiding the crime scene. She had been in those woods a thousand times and knew her way through the trees. With Major Crimes still en route, there would be no more than the four constables that were on duty at any given time during the week, eight at the most if Ewan had called in the rest of his unit who were off duty. With any luck, they would all be guarding the immediate perimeter of the crime scene, which should leave her path clear to slip in through the side entrance of her house. Ewan would most certainly come looking for her there first, but she would lock herself in, for now. She needed time to think, time to collect herself. Time to process. Alone, just her, the real her.