“There were also different reports of what she was last seen wearing. Of course, these people didn't know her. It wasn't as if they were friends or family or anything. But they remembered seeing her. At least, they thought they did. Someone described what she was wearing, others described her bathing suit, but there were at least three different descriptions of a bathing suit.
“In fact, there were different descriptions of what she was wearing altogether. There was one person who knew exactly what she was wearing, another person got the general idea of it, but had a couple of details wrong. Nothing significant. The kinds of things you would mess up if you saw somebody from across the way. But this mystery witness's description was the one that really stood out. It didn't make sense. It was really different from the descriptions the other people gave, and at odds with the clothes Violet was actually wearing when her body was found. I think that contributed a lot to its being judged unreliable. I mean, there were some basic similarities. Shorts and a t-shirt. That kind of thing. Just not the right colors,” I say.
“That doesn't necessarily mean anything,” Xavier counters. “Eyewitnesses are notoriously inaccurate, especially if they are young and they experienced something traumatic. If this was a child who watched another child get snatched, he or she could easily get confused or be influenced by what the kidnapper was wearing.”
“That's true,” I say. “It just stood out to me.”
“Xavier,” Dean says. “Time to eat.”
“I'll see you when I get there tomorrow,” I say.
Chapter Seventeen
“Are you sure you're ready for this?” Sam asks.
“Yes,” I say. “It's been a while, but I think… I think I can handle it.”
“Are you sure? Because we don't have to do this. I know how this can be for you, and if you don't feel emotionally prepared, I'm here for you.”
“Sam, stop that,” Janet says, coming into the room with a platter of the incredible mushroom and onion mini quiches that have become a mainstay on the Game Night menu. “There's no need to tease your future wife. Just because she happens to be the only FBI agent in the world who can't successfully play a game of Clue.”
She rolls her lips together to muffle the laugh I know is bubbling up inside her because it's already burst out of Paul's mouth.
“Thank you so much for the endorsement,” I say. “But I'm not the only one. I've known plenty of other agents who aren't exceptional at certain board games that are largely about luck and guessing.”
“Oh, there's got to be some sort of support group for you,” Paul says.
I make a face at him. "I'm considering starting one." I lay out all the game pieces, then take a bite out of one of the quiches. “All right, let's do this thing."
"You know,” Sam pipes up several turns later, "maybe we should have games at our reception."
I raise one eyebrow at him.
“I am not playing ‘Pin the Garter on the Bride’ with your grandmother,” I say.
“No. I mean like this.”
“As in, turn our reception into one big game night?” I ask.
"Yeah. Monopoly, Life, Scrabble. We'll even throw Clue in there if you're feeling particularly brave that day," he says. "Have them set up around the venue on tables and the guests could choose what they want to play."
I think about this for a beat and nod. "I'm into that."
Sam smiles at me and plants a kiss on my shoulder.
“We could even set up Twister,” he grins. “That could be a fun thing you could do with my grandmother.”
“Absolutely not.”
He guffaws as I grab the tiny lead pipe to set in the observatory.
That night Sam slides into bed next to me as I'm rubbing lotion onto my hands and along my arms. I smile at him as he settles in and grabs for the book he has on the table on his side.
"What's that smile for?" he asks.
"You realize that talking about a Game Night reception is the first actual plan we've made for the wedding?" I ask.
The smile ventures onto his lips. "I guess it is."
"It feels kind of good, huh?" I ask.
He raises up and kisses me. "It does." He looks down at his book. "You know, we could do a lot more of that. There are a few more decisions we need to make."
"A few," I admit with a laugh. "But can we just keep making maybe one every week or so? That way we can keep enjoying it."
"Well, that would have us actually getting married in ten years or so. Bellamy would murder you. But it would mean their daughter could be our flower girl, so she might forgive you," Sam says. “Posthumously.”
"Yeah, she is very wedding forward."
"Then why isn't she pushing Eric to get married?" Sam asks.
"That's one of the great wonders of the universe, babe," I say.
"You mean mysteries?" he asks.
"Nope. I mean wonders. She has been right feisty lately."
He laughs. "Bellamy aside, I don't think I could wait for the next ten years to marry you. I've already been waiting since you were seven. Don't you want to be married to me?"
"Of course, I do," I say, wriggling down in the blankets so I can cuddle up close to his side. "I've been waiting since I was seven, too. But I just also really like being engaged. Can't we do both?"
He laughs and looks over at me. "I don't think it works that way."
"It could. We could keep going like this for a while, then when we decide we're done, we get married, but don't tell anybody so we can keep acting as though we're engaged," I say.
"So, your solution is an elopement and lifelong deception," he says. “We don’t get our big party, no fancy toasters, no smashing cake in each other’s faces. And Bellamy would still kill you because she wouldn’t know. Kind of sounds like the worst of both worlds.”
"Probably not
