Page 17 of 4th Silence (Schock Sisters Mystery #4)

Meg

C harlie is an expert at playing things by ear.

Me?

I like a certain sense of order and having a plan. Some might call me methodical. I’m not sure I’d go that far, but there’s peace in knowing what comes next.

It’s part of why I love forensic sculpting.

I start with a skull and, using charts and data that provide me with measurements for anatomic points, I begin to rebuild a face.

I cut tissue depth markers, glue them to the skull, place prosthetic eyes into the sockets, and slowly layer clay over the markers.

Layer by layer, the person comes to life.

Talk about methodical.

It’s a process that takes hours upon hours, but there’s something about watching it develop that enthralls me.

As much as I love having a plan, sometimes Charlie’s way is better.

This time, I hope we’re not the ones in a jail cell.

As if on cue, Charlie’s phone rings and Mom’s name lights up the dashboard screen.

She’s probably tired of waiting for an update.

“Here we go,” Charlie mutters and taps the steering wheel. “Hi, Mom.”

“Where are you?”

Mom’s voice comes fast and breathy, putting me on edge. I know this voice. It’s the one that means something is happening, and it’s not necessarily good.

Charlie glances at me, then focuses back on the freeway. The blur of cars flying by like we’re standing still.

Adrenaline fires my system, so I do what I always do when Mom goes a little nuts. I draw a slow breath, lift my chin, and shove my shoulders back while I wait for whatever news she’s about to level us with.

“What happened?” I ask.

“You need to get back here.”

I close my eyes, force myself to stay patient with our drama queen mother, who hasn’t answered my question. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

“Well,” she says, “obviously, you’re not listening to the news.”

At this, my sister offers a grunt—one that usually leads to a smart-ass retort. Not today. I don’t have the energy for another round of their banter.

Between the Gordy meeting, the puzzle-piecing, and the general brain drain, I’m running on fumes. I need food and ten blessed minutes of silence.

Except…Mom.

“We just got out of our meeting,” I say, reaching for my phone to check the news.

A text from Jerome flashes across the screen.

Guilt hits me like a sledgehammer. I’ve been avoiding him—using the case as an excuse—but Jerome isn’t stupid. He knows I’ve been dodging him since he brought up marriage.

“Hello?” Mom asks.

I swipe the text away. “Hold on. I’m pulling up the local news.”

“Charlie,” Mom says, her voice direct, “you’re not going to be happy. And I’m sorry.”

Once again, my sister shoots me a look and then shifts her attention back to driving. “What did you do?”

“Ha!” Mom barks. “My eldest daughter. You’re a tough cookie. This time it wasn’t me. We’ve got a horde of press outside the office. Both front and back.”

We haven’t been gone that long. What in the hell could have happened?

Welcome to the world of Schock.

My question is answered as soon as I tap on my news app, and the lead headline populates the screen.

Former FBI Profiler Accused of Misconduct. My stomach twists into a painful knot. Charlie is a former FBI profiler, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand this is what has Mom spun up. I tap into the article.

Charlize Schock. Former FBI profiler. Local investigator renowned for solving cold cases.

Head pounding, I skip ahead, scanning for the meat of it. Improper sexual relationship with FBI supervisor.

What? My jaw drops.

Charlie? Sleeping with her boss?

That’s ridiculous.

JJ’s name appears next, and suddenly, this smear job is more personal.

And public.

Other than the names being right, the article contains no facts or evidence, only an ‘anonymous tip.’

“Shit,” I whisper.

What else is there to say when they’ve paired a lie with a fact because Charlie is involved with JJ.

“Meg,” Charlie says, “what is it?”

I set my phone in my lap and shift to face my sister. “Take the next exit. We need to pull over and make a plan. Now.”

Without a word, she changes lanes and exits.

“A plan for what?”

I point to a gas station at the bottom of the ramp. “Pull in there. Mom, we’ll call you back.”

She hangs up without arguing, and Charlie zips into the gas station and parks off to the side.

“What the hell, Meg?”

I hand her the phone. “There’s no easy way to say this. An article just dropped. It accuses you of sleeping with your FBI boss to get plum cases. JJ’s name is mentioned, suggesting you were also using sex to manipulate him.”

A few beats of silence pass while she processes. It’s as if we’re suspended in time. Floating between reality and fiction while Charlie absorbs my words.

My sister? Some have called her the original ice queen. Her skin is so thick you could make tires with it. Dump truck tires. Control is her game, and she will never, ever, let anyone see her sweat.

But I know her. Probably better than anyone. I’m an artist, I study people and mannerisms and emotions.

I know her.

Underneath the tough exterior, she’s coming apart inch by painful inch.

It’s what makes her so good. She’s an extraordinary blend of grit and empathy. It’s part of why we do what we do with these cold cases, because this stuff?

It’s not easy.

Soul-crushing stuff that we dive headfirst into time and time again.

Charlie scrolls. Her cheeks lose all color. Her shoulders sink.

I want to scream. Someone did this to her. Made her feel small. Mary Hartman. Has to be. Who else would go that low?

“Charlie?”

For a few seconds, she squeezes her eyes closed, and I stay quiet, giving her space to gather herself.

Then I see it—the shift. The quiet reclaiming of power.

“Mary,” I say. “It has to be her. It’s all lies.”

“Damn straight.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I have to make a statement. I need to talk to JJ and—damn it. Garrett.”

Her former FBI boss.

“He’ll lose his mind,” she continues. “If he’s not already. His reputation is everything to him. This stunt is a beauty.” She huffs. “But it’s not going to scare me off. This only proves the Hartmans have something to hide. I cannot wait to talk Mary.”

“We should huddle up back at the office. You can give the press there a statement, we’ll triage and then visit Mary.”

Charlie nods. “Agreed.” She shifts the car into drive. “We’ve got the next fifteen minutes to come up with a good sound bite.”

Twenty minutes later, we shove through the back door of the office, breathless and rattled after being swarmed by the local press. This is what celebrities feel like—trapped by cameras, stalked by paparazzi.

Before we were even out of the car, the hungry pack converged, encircling us.

Charlie handled it like a pro. Calm and composed while delivering a statement about false and defamatory claims, her unwavering commitment to victims, and her demand for a retraction.

Done.

You go, girl.

My sister doesn’t weather storms. She is the storm.

Inside, I lock the door behind us in case a reporter gets bold.

Charlie wastes no time heading for her office. “I’ll be a few minutes,” she calls. “I need to speak with JJ and Garrett. And our lawyer. What a mess.”

I exhale, my body sagging under the weight of everything we’ve just endured.

Five minutes. That’s all I need. My noise-canceling headphones, a little deep breathing, and I’ll be back in the game.

I make the turn into my office and— whoa . Jerome stands near my worktable, his long artist’s fingers gliding over one of my brushes.

His honey blond hair falls in its normal shaggy waves around his ears, and my heart thumps.

Skidding to a halt, something inside me bursts. I’ve spent days avoiding him. Yes, there’s been a fair amount of self-flagellation over it, but what I’m feeling now, the instant joy, the bone-deep missing, is…confusing.

How can I love him this much and still be afraid to marry him?

Ever-so-slowly, he angles away from the table and faces me. “Hi.”

His tone is flat and…something. Something like sadness or disappointment. Panic slithers over my skin. My lack of attention, my total disregard for his mention of marriage, has done this to him.

I’ve done this to him.

I rush him. Just hurdle toward him, throwing myself into his arms.

Somehow, after how poorly I’ve treated him, he catches me. He even kisses the top of my head.

Resting my cheek against his chest, I breathe. Patchouli soap. Warm and earthy. So Jerome. He first tried it after we’d visited a farmer’s market and hasn’t stopped using it since.

He says, along with me, it settles him. We’re his power combination.

Guilt once again thrashes me, and tears sting my eyes. I don’t deserve him.

I truly don’t.

We stay this way for what feels like a long time before I finally gather my courage to stand back and meet his gaze. Those hazel eyes? Seared into my brain. I could sketch them from memory.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“You wouldn’t talk to me. I came to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

No. It isn’t. “You’re not letting me off the hook. You deserve better from me.”

“Look—”

“Jerome—”

We both stop, then laugh.

And just like that, something shifts. We feel like us again.

But talking over each other won’t get us anywhere.

He holds up his hand. “Me first. I know I ambushed you with the marriage talk.”

“You didn’t?—”

He shakes his head. “Let me finish. Please.”

I press my lips together and nod.

“We’ve never talked about marriage, and I could’ve been more thoughtful about how I brought it up. I get that it scares you, Meg. After the silence these past few days... I know I pushed you away. I’m sorry. I just…” He rubs the back of his neck. “Shit. I’m screwing this up.”

“You’re not,” I say.

He pins me with another look, the heat so fierce it stirs that part of me that only Jerome can bring to life.

“I love you,” he says. “And if you don’t want marriage, that’s fine. We’ll keep things as they are.”

A warm gush washes over me as relief takes hold. He’s not dumping me. He’s not forcing anything.

I’ll admit, my immediate reaction is happiness. After all, I don’t have to move out of my comfort zone. I don’t have to do the thing that terrifies me.

Yay, me.

Except…I give his worn Pink Floyd T-shirt a tug. “Is that enough for you?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. For now, it is. I’m not sure what’s tripping you up because, hell, Meg, we’re practically living together, but…whatever. If you need time, take some time.”

“I’m worried.”

“About?”

I glance around the office, my attention skittering over the five skulls. Three complete and two in progress. Ariel, Martha, Nancy, Randy, and Peter. All cold cases. All names I’ve bestowed on them until we can identify them.

“I’m obsessed.” I peer back at Jerome. “I don’t know if I have room for all of them and being a wife.”

He gives me a mock-horrified look that makes me laugh.

God, that laugh feels good.

Right.

I love this man.

“Meg, you are stone-cold nuts.”

“And your point is?”

He snorts. “I could say the same about me. What do I know about being a husband? I’m a halfway-decent artist, part-time gallery clerk, part-time weed dealer, maybe-soon dispensary owner.

I’ve never had a real relationship before you.

At our age, that’s... not great. But I love you.

That’s what I know.” He shrugs. “The rest? I’ll figure it out. ”

I cock my head, rolling his words around in my mind. We’re a pair, aren’t we? Both of us are thinking too much about what hasn’t yet happened instead of focusing on right now. On being present and enjoying each other.

“You’re right,” I say. “I let my anxiety steamroll me. I’m so sorry. I should have talked to you. Told you that I was scared.”

“Fear is normal. Shit. I’m scared every day when I open my front door. Anything can happen, right? I want it to happen with you. However, that needs to be. If you’ll have me.”

Always. Without question. “Absolutely,” I say. “I love you, Jerome. I hope you know that.”

“I do. But you can’t ghost me again. I won’t live that way.”

Ooofff . That one lands hard. “I promise you, I will never do this again. If I freak out, I’ll talk to you.”

“Excellent. Hallelujah. Now we can both get on with it. Are we good?”

We are so good. “Sure are. I feel a thousand pounds lighter.”

He bends low, brushing his lips against mine. “You make me insane.”

I loop my arms around his neck. “I make me insane.”

Then I full-on kiss him, pouring everything I have into it. My gratitude. My love. The last of my energy. He deserves that, even with everything else crashing down around me.

When we finally back away, I fan my face. “Phew. I’ve missed you.”

At this, he smiles and lightly pinches my chin. “I’ve missed you. Now, I’m gonna get out of here. Let me know when you’re available. Would love to see you.”

I nod. “How about tonight at my place? It might be late. We think we found a major clue. We have security footage of Mary Hartman taking something to the cottage.”

“Whatever time works,” he says. “I’ll come by around eight. If you’re not there, I’ll wait.”

Such a good man.

“Yes. I’d like that.”

He drops a quick kiss on my lips and heads to the door. “Good. See you later.”

I watch him go. His tall, lean frame moving away from me. “Jerome?”

He pauses near the door and swings back. “What?”

“You mentioned practically living together.”

“And?”

“Maybe we can talk more about that. It’s not marriage, but … there’s commitment there.” I waggle my eyebrows. “We’ll call it a trial run.”

He grins at me. “Trial run. You’re funny. Whenever you’re ready, say the word and we’ll talk.”

Then he’s gone, and just like that, I’m outside my comfort zone.

Maybe that’s precisely where I need to be.