She shook her head. “It’s time for …” she announced, as she hopped to her feet and walked into the kitchen.
“Tea?” Sari called, as she toddled behind her.
Daniela looked down at her sweet baby. “How about milk for you?” Daniela reached down and scooped her up, setting her in the special little chair at the table, and poured her a sippy cup of milk, giving her something to enjoy. She quickly put the teakettle on for herself.
She was a great connoisseur of teas of all kinds, from black to green to many herb concoctions. Those were what she grew and sold on her website. As she made herself a cup of tea, she sat here, wishing she could grow and brew the other missing parts of her life. A cup of tea was a cup of comfort, but it was a small bandage over a much bigger issue. She sat down with a heavy sigh, then picked up her warm cup of tea and smiled at her daughter. “Not to worry, sweetheart. We’ll be just fine.”
Sari looked up at her and cried out, “Doggy, doggy.”
Daniela laughed. “He’s coming back too. Both of them.”
Their prisoner wasn’t cooperating. It had taken a while to get him conscious, and, once he realized he was tied up and facing the deputy now too, he’d gotten very still. When he realized the cops had his wallet, he buttoned his lip and hadn’t said a word.
Weston looked at the detective. “Do you know him?”
“No.”
“Do we know anybody who did? This is either Grant or it’s somebody impersonating him, and, if so, where the hell did he get his wallet?”
The detective nodded, walked a few feet away and pulled out his phone to make a call.
Weston was hoping to listen in, but the detective had stepped out on the front porch. Weston sat down across from the man. “Dude, if this is your house, speak up. I’m the intruder here, if that’s the case. But since we’re trying to solve what happened to Ginger and Grant, who died when they went off the road, we’re a little confused as to who you are and why you are carrying Grant’s ID.”
The man just glared at him.
With a sudden thought, Weston got up and looked around at the photos in the house and brought one back. It showed the couple. He held it up against the man’s face and frowned.
“It could be you. But, if you are Grant, why wouldn’t you say something?”
The man still didn’t say a word.
Weston looked over at Shambhala, who was lying in front of the fireplace. She came to attention when the detective arrived, but she hadn’t growled or barked. And she seemed to be perfectly comfortable with this guy. If it was Grant, then, of course, she’d be comfortable. But, if that was the case, why hadn’t he brought the dog home with him, six weeks ago? “No excuse leaving the dog to suffer on her own,” he announced.
The stranger’s eyebrows shot up. He glanced over at the dog and frowned. Shambhala didn’t seem to care one way or another.
“She either knows you really well,” Weston said, “or she doesn’t see you as a particular threat.”
At that, the corner of the man’s lips turned down, but he still didn’t speak.
Weston shrugged. “Well, you’re not going anywhere for a long time anyway.”
“You can’t hold me here,” the man said. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You’re squatting inside someone else’s house,” Weston informed him. “That’s the least of it. If you’ve assumed another man’s identity, then that’s a whole different story as well.” Weston could see the other guy hesitating. “And, if you are Grant, you have a hell of a pile of explaining to do.”
The guy resumed glaring at him again.
The detective returned. “According to the photos from police files, he’s looking like Grant. But, if he’s Grant, what the hell is going on?”
“Exactly. And I agree he does look like Grant.” Weston held up the photo he’d taken off the wall.
The detective looked at it and nodded. “We have something similar.”
“So, is it Grant? Do you have any mention of Grant having a family in your police files?”
“Just his brother, Gregory,” the detective said.
“Did anybody mention they were twins?”
The detective’s eyebrows shot up, and he frowned. “Are you Gregory then?” he asked the guy.
The man’s eyes went from one to the other, and his shoulders all of a sudden sagged. “I’m Grant.”
“So says you,” said Weston. “Now I don’t believe you.”
The man glared at him. “I’m in my home. I’ve got my ID, and you can see from the photos it’s me.”
“No, not necessarily,” the detective said. “I’ve also got a dead man, buried and gone, who was ID’d as Grant. I spoke to a brother who was coming up here.”
Grant said. “You spoke to me.”
“No, not buying it,” Weston said. “If this was your house, you would have kicked me out. You wouldn’t have let us in, and you wouldn’t have hidden like you did. So the only reason you’re still hiding, if you are Grant, is if you had something to do with your wife’s death, as well as the man who was with her.”
“It was her lover,” he said bitterly. “And that lover was my brother.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on a minute.” The detective held his hands up by his shoulders. “So was it you I talked to or your brother?”
“There’s just the two of us, and it was me you talked to,” he said, as if he was suddenly tired of the whole mess. “My wife and her lover were killed,
