The Pawn of the Phoenix (The Memory Collector Series Book 2) (9 page)

“Out?” I narrow my brows, completely baffled by the idea. “Where?”

Mrs. Whitmore gives me an incredulous look. “I do not pry into Mr. Edwards’s business. He said he was going out. That is all. I do not ask questions.”

I smooth my features into serene calm. “Of course. Did he happen to say where he was going or when he would be back home?”

“No.”

She turns and walks away from me, and I bite down on the words that threaten to tumble out of my mouth at her terse retreat. It’s not unusual for Keenan to leave, and there have been times when he has left me at the townhouse alone—of course not before calling on one of the constables to babysit me. But usually I’m home during those times and manage to drill him for information before he leaves. Most of the time he doesn’t answer, but his emotions give me some insight anyway. This time the unknown has piqued my curiosity.

After hanging my coat, I climb the stairs and head into my bedroom. I try not to think about where Keenan might have gone, but my mind continues to roam in that direction despite my commands. I’ve managed to successfully remove my skirt and blouse before my gaze unwittingly flickers to my dresser. Before I even realize I’m moving, I find myself opening the first dresser and staring down at the papers inside. My gaze flickers over various familiar and unfamiliar names, time recordings that seem arbitrary now, and payments that strike me as insufficient. Regardless of the amount, I never personally saw any of it. Most went to the Madame and her other employees, while the rest went to maintaining my health, hygiene, and anything else that might enhance my desirability.

I catch sight of a ‘special request’ and immediately slam the drawer shut. My face heats up as unwanted memories swim to the surface, taunting me with horrible visions, and I step away from the dresser as if it were on fire. I hate myself for looking, but I resent the detective for bringing the list into this house in the first place. When I finally force my gaze away, I hear the sound of the front door opening and closing. Without thinking, I step out into the hallway and relax at the sight of Keenan removing his bowler hat.

His eyes travel up the staircase and widen fractionally in surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you still awake.”

“I’ve only recently arrived myself.”

“Ah.”

He glances away and removes his coat, hanging it up beside mine. He nods at Mrs. Whitmore before climbing up the stairs, his gaze intent on the step in front of him, and I narrow my eyes in suspicion. I can tell he’s been drinking, but only mildly. Was he with the Chief? Or Rick? When he reaches the top step, he pauses and his gaze meets mine.

“Was there something you required, Moira?” His eyes dart down to my state of dress, and his brow arcs high. “Shall I call on Mrs. Whitmore to help you with your corset?”

“No.” I cross my arms, and his gaze travels back up to my face. “Where were you?”

“I believe that’s none of your business.”

I try not to pout, but fail. “I’m curious.”

“When are you not?” He sighs and turns me, guiding me back into my room.

I try to resist, but his grip on my shoulders tightens. “What are you doing? I’m not done talking to you.”

After we’ve entered my room, he stops us and his hands lift away from my shoulders. I’m about to turn around and demand answers when he abruptly tugs hard on the strings at the back of my corset, forcing me to stumble backwards into his chest. My breath rushes out of me, and my heart flutters nervously in my chest. He lowers his head, his cheek brushing against my hair, and some of my dark strands catch against his stubble. I try to even out my breathing as his fingers work at the strings to loosen my corset.

My mind scrambles to find even footing, but my thoughts continue to fumble weakly from his proximity. I have no idea what’s happening or how I feel about it, because I’m too preoccupied with the feel of his body against mine. I turn my head slightly toward him, and he leans closer, his lips brushing against my ear.

His voice is soft and surprisingly calm. “Where is Mr. Hayes to help you, hmm?”

My mouth opens slightly in nervous confusion. “What?”

“Nowhere,” he says in response, his voice now firm. “Remember that, Moira.”

I try to face him, but he stops my progress by sliding his hands up my arms. His lips press against my neck in a feather-light kiss, and then he’s gone. I clutch my corset to my chest and abruptly turn around in time to see him retreat from my room.

“Keenan–”

“Goodnight, Moira.”

He doesn’t turn around, nor does he stop walking away from me. His voice was firm and final, effectively cutting off any words I might have said. I sigh, my fingers immediately seeking out the spot on my neck where his lips had been. I had believed that keeping my relationship with Keenan professional was for the best, but I’m beginning to think such an attempt is only futile.

T
here’s
a palpable tension between me and the detective. It lingers in the air—hostility and guilt intermingling in discord. The former emotion stems from me, while the latter emanates from Keenan. Several days have passed since the day he had confronted me about the details surrounding Scott’s death, and in the span of those days, the friction has escalated. For one, my second visit to Mr. Hayes’s estate has caused Keenan to be more reclusive than before. We’ve barely spoken, so I’ve felt no inclination to inform him of my encounter with Jonathan. Besides, nothing noteworthy happened. Secondly, the Phoenix case has gone cold since Mr. Anderson’s death, with no leads other than mere speculation. No one knows when the Phoenix will strike next, and the uncertainty weighs heavily on all of us.

So to say I’ve been moody would be an understatement. Though a lot of my anxiety stems from the Phoenix case, the majority of my agitation is in response to the detective. I resent him for opening up one of my most festering wounds and then leaving me raw and exposed. As an empath, I pride myself in my advantage over others. With just a taste of someone’s emotions, I can get a sense of their character. And if I so desire, I can easily tear through their mind and find their darkest secrets. Yet, somehow, Keenan has managed to snatch one of
my
hidden truths. It’s
me
who is now vulnerable—a feeling I despise. The only way to even the playing field is if I find one of his secrets.

Fortunately for me, Keenan is absent this morning and has forgotten to lock his study. I don’t hesitate to enter, closing the door quietly behind me. There has to be something here. To my left is the seating area by the fireplace, and on the other side is a row of bookcases. My eyes flicker from left to right, and then settle on the desk in front of me. Unless he’s hiding something underneath the cushions, I doubt I’ll find anything to my left. The bookcases seem unlikely as well, so I divert my attention to his desk. There’s a sort of order to the chaos—very unlike the immaculate state of his desk at the police station. If I were to move something, I have no doubt he’d know. Perhaps it’s his way of seeing if anyone has invaded his space. A wicked grin blooms on my face as I deliberately move a few things out of place. Let’s see how you like that, Detective.

I move onto the drawers, delicately rummaging through the contents. My file is one of the first things I find, and it’s clear from the state of the documents that Keenan has scrutinized them several times. My picture is still at the top of the pile, displaying me at about seventeen in a provocative pose. I distinctly remember the day the picture had been taken and how I had felt about what that picture meant. It meant I was old enough to be sold. I shove the picture back into the file and carelessly replace the whole thing in the drawer, eager to be rid of any evidence of my past.

The next thing I find is a stack of letters. When I carefully peruse them, I discover they are addressed to family members, not a secret lover. I glance at a few, snatching several interesting facts in the process. His nephew has recently finished his studies and is expected to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a doctor. From what I gather, Keenan is brother to the mother, not the father. Though I’d gladly sit here all day and read every letter, it’s not family gossip I’m after. I’m not even sure what I’m expecting to find, and I gently replace the letters as I had found them.

In the other drawer, I find notes on the Phoenix case. Flipping through to the most recent entry, I glower at the single question written in Keenan’s elegant script:
Is Moira somehow connected to the Phoenix case?

I angrily return the notes to their dark corner and mutter, “Damn you.”

In another file, there are documents and notes concerning the Hangman case he had worked on several years ago. And then I realize something. The desk back at the police station is immaculate because he rarely uses it. Most of his analyzing occurs right here in this chair. I close the drawer and sit back, trying to think like him. Maybe Keenan has no secrets, in which case my efforts are for naught. Or maybe I overlooked the bookcases.

My gaze flickers to the line of books, and I immediately stand and survey the nearest shelf. Like in his office at the police station, there are copies of Braxton’s books on politics and the law. There’s also a collection on Fortland titled
The Geography and History of Fortland
. Several shelves are dedicated to various philosophical texts and educational books on human anatomy. I kneel on the floor to continue my search on the lower shelves. Interestingly, there’s even a section devoted to poetry. I pull out one of the poetry books and flip to a page bookmarked with a small slip of paper. A smile flitters across my face as my eyes scan over the first verse. Of course he would enjoy the melancholic sort.

My eyes rake over the titles on the last shelf and then pause in astonishment. The very last book is a romance novel, and I instantly grab it. It’s exactly what I had never expected to find in his ownership, and the novel is even a little worn out around the edges, as if he had read it several times. A bit of a romantic, Detective? When I open the book, I find a photo pressed between two pages and my heart stops for a moment. The photograph has two creases running through it, as if it were folded at one point. And the woman? Well, she’s beautiful with thick, blond ringlets falling over one shoulder and a slender neck that speaks of elegance. Her face is an attractive heart shape, with small rosebud lips and large eyes. And I imagine her skin must have been pure ivory—soft and porcelain-like.

For several heartbeats, I remain absolutely still, and it’s as if I can hear this woman laughing at me. Her laugh would be delicate like chimes ringing in the breeze—very unlike my boisterous chuckle. So this is your first love, Detective. How could she not be? Her picture is delicately placed between the pages of a romance novel—a book he has obviously perused several times. Everything about her is lovely, and her attire and accessories speak of wealth. I turn the photo over and read the name inscribed on the back.
Celeste
. I scoff. Of course she would have a name that essentially means ‘heavenly’. Then it hits me—the hideous festering emotion people call jealousy. He must still love her if he keeps a photo of her in his private study, and I wonder how I could have ever competed with her memory.

The door knob turns, and instead of returning the photo, I fold it and place it in the inside of my boot. I hastily shove the romance novel back in place and pick up the book of poetry I had looked at earlier. I stand just as the door opens and meet the detective’s gaze as calmly as possible, despite the racing of my heart. For a moment, he simply stands there, his shock drifting toward me.

His eyes quietly assess every inch of the room before falling on the book in my hand. “What are you doing in my study?”

My heart quickens at the sound of his irritation, even if his expression remains calm. “You had suggested I should dabble in some hobbies, so I came to find a book to read. I hope you don’t mind.”

His eyes narrow sceptically as he approaches me and holds out his hand. I give him the book and watch his expression as he scans the title. Looking at him now, I’m painfully reminded of the night he had removed my corset for me, and I manage to stop myself from touching my neck. Though he’s still dubious, his annoyance has abated. His eyes dart up to my face, and I try not to flinch from the intensity in their depths. There’s a confusing sense of relief in the air, and he’s pleased I’m no longer hostile toward him.

He hands me back the book. “I didn’t think you’d enjoy poetry.”

I’m not sure if I should be offended by that admission, but then my mind recalls the romance novel and a teasing smile flitters across my face. “Well, I admit I was searching for something else. A romance novel, perhaps?”

“I don’t own any, so your search would have been futile.”

“None? Not even one?”

He frowns, bemused by my insistence. “No, Moira. Not even one. If you’d like, I could see if either the Chief’s wife or Jamieson’s fiancée has some.”

Either he has completely forgotten about the romance novel on the bottom shelf, or he doesn’t want to lend it to me, knowing it contains the picture of his previous lover. “That’s alright. I'll try poetry.” I lift the book between us. “Do you mind if I borrow this book then?”

“Not at all. You’re more than welcome to read another once you’ve finished with that one.”

I smile, hiding the sick feeling in my stomach at the sound of our polite conversation. “Thank you. That’s very considerate of you.”

His lips curve into a tight smile in response, and the previous tension returns. He breaks eye contact first, his gaze drifting to his desk to assess the minute changes I had made with a slight scowl on his face. He knows I’ve rummaged through his desk and it irritates him. Good, now he’ll know better to confront me about his suspicions first rather than pry into my past behind my back. When he returns his gaze to me, I flash him a wicked grin.

He lifts a questioning brow, stifling his irritation. “Are we even now?”

“Maybe.” I hug the book to my chest, my smile quickly vanishing.

“Can we talk about–”

“I’d rather not.”

He inhales slowly. “I’m going to keep searching, Moira.”

“I know.”

We continue staring at one another, both of us unwilling to relent. I’m conflicted with several desires at that moment. One minute I want to unleash my anger on him and the next minute I want to kiss him. But then, just as suddenly, I want to ask him about Celeste. Who was she? How did they meet? And how did they separate? If only he would invite me into his mind. I suppose I could ask, but honestly I’m afraid. For a moment, I think he might actually invite me to do so.

He clears his throat. “I actually came to find you. There’s been an unfortunate event that requires our immediate attention.”

Dread washes over me and thoughts of Celeste are pushed to the back of my mind. “Another murder?”

“It doesn’t appear so,” he says slowly. “But to be certain, you’ll have to see if there’s an afterimage.”

I nod distractedly. “Who?”

“Andrew Anderson.”

“No,” I breathe, completely shocked. “Really?”

He nods. “We should leave now.”

“Okay, just give me a second.”

After hastily placing the book of poetry and Celeste’s picture in my room, I follow the detective outside and into his motor vehicle. Instead of driving north into ward twenty-four, Keenan takes us, instead, to the mortuary farther up Churchill Road. Dr. White greets us the moment we enter the building, and I note his appearance is still dishevelled. He slicks back his dirty blond hair and ushers us to the back room where a body lies on one of the tables, and I have to admit I’m relieved. It’s easier to study a body in a mortuary than it is to inspect it at the crime scene, even if the room is filled with the mingling scents of strong chemicals. My head swims dizzyingly, and I briefly wonder if this will be the time I finally retch at the sight of a body.

When Dr. White lowers the cover to reveal the face of the victim, I instinctively cringe at the sight of the gun wound. Andrew’s head is brutally disfigured, his flesh split open to expose a gruesome window into the human brain. My hand flies to my mouth, and I try not to vomit.

“Apparently, he committed suicide this morning,” says the detective beside me. “But I’d like you to confirm that.”

I could say I’ve become comfortable with the sight of death after seeing its face several times in the past three months, but that would be a lie. It will take years before I can look oblivion in the eyes and not even flinch like the detective. But at the moment, the same overwhelming melancholy I had felt the day of Anthony Bradford’s execution settles over me. It’s with great trepidation I place my fingertips on Andrew’s temples and dive into the remnants of his mind. A scene flashes before me, fragmented and sluggish. Words are written and there’s a revolver on a desk. Then there’s nothing but darkness. I release my hold slowly and it’s as if a part of Andrew’s lingering sorrow clings to my fingertips and infects me.

Keenan looks at me expectantly, and I shake my head in response to his unspoken question. There was no sign of the Phoenix’s insignia. Nor was there evidence of any sort of tampering. Andrew wrote a suicide letter and then shot himself in his father’s study. I pity the woman who is not only a recent widow, but also a grieving mother now. Was she the one who found her son’s body? I hope not. I remember a time when I too had seen the aftermath of a suicide: a woman hangs from the rafter and one of Devin’s arms wraps around her torso as the other removes the noose from her neck.

“Moira?”

I start out of the painful memory and meet the detective’s gaze. He responds to my quizzical look with a frown and gestures for us to leave, but as usual, I wash my hands before we exit. We drive to the police station where we immediately enter the privacy of his office. Keenan sits behind his desk and, per his customary behaviour, promptly lights a cigarette as he taps the side of his chair with the other hand.

He looks at me and exhales leisurely. “I presume then Andrew committed suicide of his own accord.”

“I didn’t see any interference.” I recall the words I had seen in Andrew’s mind. “Do you have the letter he wrote?”

Keenan opens a folder and hands me a single piece of paper. I tentatively hold the letter, as if it’s capable of crumbling beneath my touch, and begin to read.

D
ear Mother
,

I
have been
nothing but a burden to you for many years, and now I have committed a heinous crime by leaving you a widow. Though I feel you are better off without the cruel man you claimed as your husband, I cannot bear the torment I have caused you. The guilt eats away at my soul each day that passes. Even if you could ever find it in your heart to forgive me, I don’t think I could ever forgive myself. I hated him, mother. I am not ashamed of what I have felt; my only regret is I have caused you pain. I have been struggling with a great sorrow for many years, and I feel it is time I relieve myself of it and relieve you of your duty as well. I will love you forever.