It’s three o’clock and I sit at the bar that overlooks the kitchen, watching our chef team cook, while sampling delicious food, writing out stacks of notecards related to my investigation. As for who is preparing that delicious food—Michael Roswell is a remarkably good-looking man—tall, dark, and handsome personified. He’s also an acclaimed chef, who assures me he has no family of his own and in fact, he enjoys spending his Thanksgiving cooking for others. His helper is Naomi, a pretty blonde who doesn’t speak, anger crackling beneath her surface that seems to be directed at Chef Roswell. There’s a subtle intimacy between them that defies their avoidance of eye contact with one another. And yet—I don’t believe they’re a couple. Whatever the case, what bothers her does not bother him. He’s humming to Christmas music that isn’t playing anywhere but in his head. But there’s more to their story, and another day I’d try to figure it out but not today.
Right now, I have a murder to solve, and that’s my focus.
The jar of blood was a message.
I didn’t need pretty little DD to tell me that brilliant tidbit of information. Now I have to discover the answer to a puzzle. What message? I write out a notecard with every idea:
— I’m better than the Umbrella man.
— More blood will spill.
— You beat him. You won’t beat me.
— It’s not over.
— I’m coming for you.
— You stupid bitch, you will never figure this out.
— Look here, so you won’t see the truth.
Kane sets a glass of wine in front of me and sits down. He’s in jeans and a dark blue sweater. I’m in jeans and a red sweater. My mom loved the holidays and she always wore red on Thanksgiving to launch the season. Who said I wasn’t sentimental? Me mostly, but my mother was the good part of me, the part that wasn’t a sinner, and since the house I inherited from her burned down, I’ve been disconnected from her. It’s not a good time for me to feel disconnected from my good side.
Kane figured that out, too, smart man that he is. So much so that, at my prodding, there’s a stunning tree decorated in silver and red in our living room that towers seven feet high. No one, most certainly not my brother, would believe Kane and I did the decorating, but we did. And to our surprise, we enjoyed every moment. Who says you can’t stab a man to death one moment and hang ornaments the next?
Kane picks up the card that reads you stupid bitch, you’ll never figure this out, eyes it, and lifts it in my direction with another one of his arched brows. “Who said this? You or the killer?”
“Probably both,” I say. “I feel like the meaning of that jar of blood is smacking me in the face so damn hard I should have a concussion and I still don’t have it.”
He scans all my options and then says, “You forgot one possibility.”
“Which is?”
“I don’t know. But none of those feel right.”
“Smart-ass. You’re no help.”
His lips curve. “Drink more wine. That will help.”
“I think you’re right.” I reach for my glass and sip, the bloom of sweet red berries on my tongue, my version of poison. For Emma Wells, it was a long, cold drink of water. If she was even poisoned. DD doesn’t think so, but I don’t trust her or her opinions at this point. I’ll wait for the tests.
The doorbell rings and I set my glass down. “That will be Lucas or my brother.” I down my wine and stand up. “You need to drink more wine.”
“I need whiskey,” he comments dryly.
He’s not wrong. This isn’t going to be pretty. I walk to the front door and glance through the side window. It’s Andrew. I don’t know why he’s not with Samantha. I’m sure he’ll be doing the naughty with her later, but I’m more pleased than I expected that he’s here. I open the door. Andrew stands there. He’s wearing a red sweater. Asshole is going to make me get emotional. “Damn you,” I murmur.
“What’d I do already?”
“The sweater.”
“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. I know. You too, asshole,” he grumbles.
“She was murdered,” I say. “I want those responsible to pay.”
“As do I.”
“If anyone can help us make that happen, it’s Kane. Don’t forget that over dinner.”
His lips tighten and he shoves a bottle of whiskey at me. “Peace offering. The good stuff.”
I glance at the ridiculously expensive bottle he had to have dipped into his trust to purchase and then back at him. “Excellent choice for a peace offering. Let’s go drink.” I back up so he can enter the hallway and shut the door behind him.
He turns to face me. “You heard?”
“Pig’s blood. Yeah. I already told you that.”
He narrows his baby blues at me. “What does it mean, Lilah?”
“Fuck you,” I say, realizing that’s the one notecard I forget to write out. “It means fuck you.”
“Since this is you I’m talking to,” he says, “I’ll take that literally. Which means this is personal.”
Of course, it’s personal, I think. The jar had my name on it, but it’s Thanksgiving and despite my sisterly duty to tell him when he makes a stupid statement, I reframe. Barely. “It’s fucked up,” I say instead, and turn and head down the hallway, calling over my shoulder, “Lucas is coming!”
He groans and not because he doesn’t like Lucas. Because he knows Kane doesn’t. Today is so much joy it can only be tolerated with whiskey. And strawberry pie.
Kane is in the living room waiting on us, facing the open window, staring out at the snowy beach. “Andrew brought whiskey,” I announce as he turns, and I show him the bottle. “The good stuff. I’ll get us all the drinks we need.” I don’t wait for a reply. I head to the bar area that’s set between the kitchen and the living room.
I’ve filled three glasses and so far, there are no voices in the living room. If my brother chickened out and ran, I’m going to be ashamed of him and I might actually have to take his badge myself. I grab two of the three glasses because I’m just not in the mood to wear the whiskey that should be in my belly. I walk into the living room and Andrew and Kane are just standing there, staring at each other. Kane, at least in my observant view, is cool and at ease, but to anyone else, he’s intense and intimidating. Andrew is stiff, edgy, his mood ping-ponging against the walls and back at us all. But he’s still here. I give him credit where credit is due.
I close the space between me and him and hand him the glass. “Drink.”
He accepts the glass and downs the contents. I hand him the second. I return to the bar and come back with two more glasses. This time I walk to Kane, hand him his glass, and then glance between them. “Okay, so what do normal people talk about at Thanksgiving?” I lift my glass. “I know. Murder.”
Kane’s lips quirk. Andrew scowls.
He motions to the tree. “Your decorator did a good job.”
“Thank you,” I say. “We did, didn’t we?” I smile at Kane.
“You didn’t decorate the damn tree,” Andrew argues. “You didn’t even help when we were kids.”
“Well, people change,” I say. “I’m more delicate and sensitive now.”
Kane laughs and sips his drink.
Andrew tilts his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation with you when you weren’t accusing me of mass murder,” Kane replies dryly.
“Okay then,” I say. “We’re back to murder. Why don’t we just sit down and talk about the case then?”
Andrew eyes me. “Your husband-to-be might not like that.”
“Oddly,” Kane replies dryly, “her obsession with criminals has never bothered me.”
Obviously, he’s egging on Andrew and when Andrew scowls, I laugh. Naomi appears in her red apron with a tray of food. “I have honey garlic shrimp,” she announces and quickly rounds the couches to set the display of food, napkins, and mini plates down on the stone coffee table.
She hurries away and I say, “That’s a sign we should just sit down, stuff our faces, and get along.”
We do. We sit. Andrew is on the couch and Kane and I in an oversized chair beside him. All three of us grab a little cup filled with shrimp. Once our mouths are full, the need for conversation is gone. We’re on little cup number two when Andrew says, “I’m pretty sure hell is groaning, the three of us together, sharing a meal.”
“And Dad, too,” I add, taking the whiskey from Kane’s hand to take a sip from his glass—it tastes better in his glass than mine—before I hand it back to him, my mind chasing an idea.
“Or not,” Andrew corrects. “Kane and I are invited to the fundraiser. Maybe we’re giving Pocher exactly what they want. Us together.”
I sit up straighter with a realization. I’m on my feet a moment later and crossing to the room to stop at the kitchen island, where I grab my stack of notecards. I thumb through them all and I stop at one card: Look here, so you won’t see the truth.
The jar of blood is a distraction.
The invitation to the charity event is an olive branch that is a lie.
Both seem to point to Pocher. Unless he, too, and the timing of his return, is also a distraction meant to keep us from seeing what’s really going on.
So, what is really going on?
I’m swimming in circles and that’s exactly what someone wants me to do. And I really do hate being the boring girl who does what’s expected of me.