Page 22 of 4th Silence (Schock Sisters Mystery #4)

Meg brushes a strand of hair from her face.

“I’m so sorry. I should have asked permission, but when I noticed the charming cottage at the back of the property, I wanted to take a look.

I’ve just taken up painting, and the light bouncing off the frost gave me chills.

I mean, total inspiration. I had to get closer and take a look.

Once I was out there, I got snow in my boots, and I wandered inside to dry them out.

Your mother has done such a beautiful job of decorating it.

” She’s totally rambling. Tone it down , I think, but she barrels on.

“The paint, the furniture—it’s all marvelous.

I hope you don’t mind that I looked around.

I stumbled across a door, and it led to a tunnel.

And as Charlie can tell you, I can’t resist a good tunnel.

It harkens back to my Nancy Drew obsession. ”

“It’s true,” I add smoothly. “Meg gets caught up in textures and colors and loses herself.”

Meg nods too enthusiastically. “Exactly! Even in here,”—she gestures at the room’s walls and furnishings—“The mix of textures and design is fascinating.”

Fascinating. Right. Because what else do you do when you stumble on evidence? You compliment the furnishings.

Alex crosses his arms. “Bullshit.” He motions for her to exit the room.

Her posture stiffens. “Can you tell me about this piece?” she asks, hitching a thumb over her shoulder. “Midcentury, right?”

His jaw clenches. The Sherman purse—that damned monstrosity at the center of this whole mess—is partially visible in the well where the extra table leaf resides.

“I’ll be damned.” Alex’s voice drops to a dangerous level. He grabs my arm and shoves me toward Meg. His grip is iron, his voice steel. “That’s what this is about. Framing my mother for murder, isn’t it?”

My heart hammers. This isn’t going according to plan at all. It’s a train jumping the tracks, and we’re still on board. “That’s not why we’re here.”

“Save it. You broke into my house to plant evidence. Jesus Christ.”

What? That’s not only wrong, it’s dangerous. I tug my arm from his grip. “You invited us in, remember? And we’re not trying to frame anyone.”

“Then what do you call that?” Alex gestures at the purse. “Some kind of sick joke?”

“I found it there,” Meg states. “And I haven’t touched it.”

“If your mother is innocent, then this might prove it,” I say. “After all, why would it be hidden in the table? Work with us, Alex. If nothing is connecting Mary to the crime, we’ll clear her name together.”

Alex laughs, a brittle, humorless sound. “You two are just like your mother—obsessed with this, and destroying people’s lives for your twisted entertainment.”

A slap in the face. My mother’s legacy always cuts deeper than it should.

“That’s not fair,” Meg interjects. “We’re trying to find justice for Tiffany. You should be, too.”

“At the expense of my mother?” Alex’s voice echoes off the concrete walls.

Mother and son. A bond we’ve seen both of them honor above all others.

What if Mary is innocent?

What if Tiffany pushed one too many of Alex’s buttons when they were kids and…?

I’m only a few feet from the table. “If the Sherman doesn’t contain evidence against your mother, Meg and I will walk away.” I meet his eyes.

“Let us examine the purse properly,” Meg adds. “If there’s nothing there, your mother is cleared. If there is...” She lets the sentence hang.

Alex’s jaw works, the muscles in his neck standing out like cords. “I’ve had enough. I’m calling the police.” He pulls his phone from his pocket, fingers trembling as he jabs at the screen.

This isn’t the righteous anger of a son defending his mother—this is the desperate panic of someone with everything to lose.

“Go ahead,” I tell him. “Call them. I’m sure they’d be very interested in examining that purse, too. Probably with a forensics team.”

He hesitates, his thumb hovering. He lifts his gaze to me, and the basement suddenly feels twenty degrees colder.

Meg and I are facing down Tiffany’s killer.

“You’re not worried about your mother at all.” I force Meg behind me as I take another step closer to the purse. “You’re worried about yourself. You’re not protecting her . You’re trying to save you .”

Meg gasps, understanding dawning on her. She pinches my arm. Hard. Sending me a message.

Alex’s voice is as hard as her pinch. “I don’t like what you’re implying.”

Too late to turn back now. “I’m not implying anything.

I’m stating a fact.” Meg pinches me again, a warning.

I keep talking. “Tell us how it happened. Did Tiffany start with the hockey stick and then lock you in here? When you got out, were you so traumatized that you went after her? The photographs of the body’s position show it facing away from the door, suggesting she was walking away from this room. Possibly running.”

His eyes widen fractionally—just enough for me.

I see it play out in my mind. “You snapped. You jumped her, grabbed the first thing you could reach, and held her down while you beat her with it.”

Meg peers around me to ogle him. I’m hoping she has her phone recording all of this. “Oh, Alex. Is that true?”

“You’re insane.” But his hand holding the phone drops to his side. “Both of you. I never touched that girl.”

That girl . Signifying a mental and emotional distance he’s put in place.

“Prove us wrong,” I challenge. “Let the police examine everything. Let’s settle this once and for all.”

His gaze darts to the half-exposed purse. I recognize the moment fear supersedes logic. His mask slips farther. Panic wins. He springs forward with shocking speed, driving his shoulder into my sternum. The impact sends me crashing against Meg, who yelps as we slam to the ground.

“Stop!” I yell.

“Charlie!” Meg pushes me off her. “Get the purse!”

Alex is already at the table, snatching up the Sherman and clutching it against his chest like it contains his very survival. It bulges, and I’m certain we’ve found the murder weapon.

I get to my feet. “Give me the purse, Alex.”

He turns for the exit. I grab the back of his shirt.

He twists away, strong-arming me and sending me crashing into the table. “You’re not ruining my life!”

Meg jets forward to block his escape. “This isn’t helping your case, Alex. If you’re innocent?—”

“Innocent?” He gives a strangled laugh, his eyes wild as he stalks toward Meg and the exit she’s barring. His claustrophobia is creating panic. “You don’t know anything. You don’t understand what’s at stake. Get out of my way!”

He tries to shove Meg aside. She grabs his arm, and they spin awkwardly, knocking into a display case. She grunts but doesn’t let go.

“The claustrophobia isn’t real,” I yell at him, grabbing for the purse. “It’s guilt closing in on you!”

A primal sound tears from his throat. He dances away. Meg jumps up, out of breath. “Charlie, I’ve got?—”

Alex’s elbow connects with her chin, sending her stumbling into a sofa. She somersaults over it.

I grip his collar, pinning him against the wall. His eyes are unfocused, his pupils dilated with fear.

“Can’t breathe,” he gasps, clawing at my hands. “Can’t?—”

The former hockey player knows how to deliver a body check. His knee drives upward, missing my groin but catching my thigh. Hard.

I falter, losing my grip. He shoves me, sending me into a shelving unit. The unit collapses under me, biting into my spine. Glass shatters. Pain slices across my neck and hands. My ankle twists painfully.

Meg screams my name. She starts toward me, then veers, reaching for him instead as he dashes for the door.

He swings the purse in an arc, catching her in the temple. She falls.

And doesn’t get up.

I push up from the broken display. Blood warms the silk of my blouse. I must have bitten my lip, too. The taste of copper fills my mouth. My ankle throbs. “You can’t escape this, Alex. JJ knows. He’s on his way.”

The panic drains from his face, replaced by ice-cold hate. The dread of what comes next, what we’ve uncovered, burns away his claustrophobia, leaving only adrenaline.

He backs out of the room, the purse still clutched to his chest. Before I can give chase with my wobbly ankle, the door slams shut with the finality of a tomb.

And, of course, we don’t know the code.