“Stubborn.”
I hesitated. “Yeah, but those Connelly women are masters at it. Like they could give clinics and shit.”
He laughed. “No wonder you were attracted to the daughter.”
Still am.
I closed my eyes to shut down that line of thought.
I leveled my eyes on Otero. “Don’t worry though, sir. I won’t drop by the Connelly house while the investigation is on-going. And investigator Dylan and I will close this case.”
He gave me a sidelong look, and I thought he might comment on that, but the look stretched for some time. After a while, he nodded.
“Is there anything else, sir?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “As long as you close this case this week, no.”
Chapter 3
Perverse Sixth Sense
Raegan
MY HEAD FELL FORWARD, my forehead landing in my upturned hand. The funeral home director had just explained the cost of cremation, interment, and flower plans for Wynnie’s space. The worst wasn’t the expense, though it was expensive. The worst was that I’d be doing this all over again when Mom passed. Tears streamed down my cheeks at the thought.
My sister’s voice hit me like a sucker punch. “Don’t borrow trouble, Rae-Rae.”
I nearly doubled over with the pain, but my cell rang, and I forced myself to sit up straight.
“Fuck. Me.” I said when I caught sight of the display.
Trey Garrity, my ex-husband, was calling. He seemed to have a perverse sixth sense. He knew I was at my lowest, so why not give me a call? More likely, this being a Friday the thirteenth, he couldn’t resist darkening my day.
I took a deep breath and wiped my eyes before I answered.
“Trey. This isn’t a good time. Please keep it short.”
I heard the ambient sounds of New York and my heart squeezed.
“I wanted to find out how you’re doing, Raegan. Losing a sister at such a young age can’t be easy.”
“It isn’t,” I said.
“I want to send flowers, but my secretary says a funeral service still hasn’t been announced.”
I pressed my lips together for a moment. “That’s right. I just got off the phone with the funeral home director and will be discussing things with Mom soon.”
“Is the delay because of the cost? I would think your settlement from me would more than take care of it.”
He was right. Compliments of the prolific number of affairs he had, and his arrogant assumption he wouldn’t get caught violating a pre-nup agreement he insisted on, I wound up with close to four million dollars after our divorce. That amount would easily cover the final expenses for my sister.
The problem was, living in New York wasn’t cheap, and I didn’t intend to rent any more.
Another problem was, if I was going to live in New York, what about Mom? Putting her in a facility cost a pretty penny in the city. Clint was right; Mom was getting better, so maybe she wouldn’t have to go to assisted living.
Either way, I had big decisions on my plate, sorting out Mom’s living arrangements and then sorting out my own. Thinking about the money reminded me that Trey brought it up, and I knew that wasn’t his actual agenda.
I tilted my neck back and forth to relieve some tension. “What do you really want, Trey?”
“I’m just offering my condolences. The hold-up doesn’t make sense.”
His only-child syndrome was showing, and it always pissed me off.
“Things get held up when foul play is suspected, Trey. Now, if you don’t mind. I have other things to do.”
He was saying something, but I hung up.
An hour later, I called my close friend and former co-worker, Angela. She was great at her job and even better at getting gossip. Not just any gossip either, the good stuff, seeing as she could sense the difference between rumors and truth better than a priest.
“Raegan Connelly! I was about to assemble a search party. How are you?”
“Hanging in there. Sorry I’ve been out of touch.”
Her tone became sympathetic. “Don’t be. Cannot imagine what you’re going through.”
“Yes, well, neither can my ex-husband apparently.”
“He called you?”
“Yes. Claimed he was trying to send flowers but since there’s been no services yet, his secretary is unable to do her job. I don’t buy it.”
“Neither would I. He’s fishing.”
“But for what?”
“Where you’re going to land, of course.”
I scoffed. “That shouldn’t matter.”
“If it means I follow you, it will.”
I laughed. “No shame in your game.”
“Shame is for nuns and little kids. Besides, he’s a certified weasel.”
My eyes widened. “Then why’d you let me marry him?”
“We’re women, Rae. Nobody lets us do anything. Besides, he didn’t show his weasel ways until after you married him.”
“You got that right,” I muttered.
“Anyway. Call me after-hours. We need to talk, but I can’t do it now.”
“Gotcha. You working late? No, it’s Friday, you can’t, right?”
“That is correct. Nine works.”
The change in her voice and her clipped cadence told me someone was within earshot. “I’ll let you get back to it. Later, Angela.”
TALKING TO ANGELA WAS often a double-edged sword. She boosted my ego and brightened my day, but she reminded me of work. Or my lack thereof, which brought on serious guilt.
I felt guilty because I should have been here the day Bronwyn died. A last-minute interview with the largest advertising agency in New York meant I’d delayed my travel by two days. So, rather than be here, I’d spent Tuesday interviewing, and it wasn’t until the end of the day that I heard Mom’s message and broke down in the middle of the Eastern, Sharpe, and Prescott lobby.
Yeah.
That wasn’t likely to get me the job, though they were quite kind about it, offering to have me driven home and telling me to call them when I was ready to discuss things further.
I supposed I would always blame myself for Bronwyn’s death. Had I been here there’s no way she’d have ‘fallen asleep’ in the bathtub. Not that I believed that, but still. She and I would’ve been up until the wee hours gabbing and carrying on, such that she would’ve showered and had
