Page 25 of 4th Silence (Schock Sisters Mystery #4)

Meg

“ H ere’s one,” Jerome says from his spot beside me on his battered sofa. “Two bedrooms. Decent neighborhood.”

It’s Christmas Eve, and we’re enjoying some quiet time together before my family’s big holiday feast tomorrow.

Typically, I look forward to Christmas Day, but this year—with all the energy spent on solving Tiffany’s case, Mom’s drama, and Charlie heartbroken over JJ— I’m not sure what I have left in the tank.

Being an empath, I suck up every ounce of my family’s energy. And, right now, the energy isn’t good.

At all.

So, yes, I’m savoring my time on Jerome’s couch.

We’re killing time before we watch the original A Christmas Carol. I love that movie. It gives me a sense of the simplicity before technology hijacked everything.

While we wait, Jerome is scouring real estate rental websites. He’s been at this for days and has come up with zilch.

Well, that’s not altogether true. He’s found options I’ve nixed for at least a dozen reasons. Too small, too loud, too isolated.

He holds his phone up. Onscreen is a photo of a brick apartment building. Brick? And no porch. No outdoor fireplace to curl up beside on a fall night.

Nooooo .

I shift my gaze from the screen to him. “I know you’ve been working hard on this, and I keep saying no.”

“You do,” he says, the words carrying zero heat. “I know it has to be the right setup.”

Between us, we need at least one art studio. Thus, a two-bedroom. Even then, we’d need storage space for supplies and any extra items we bring from our own homes.

We need space. And what he’s finding in our price range doesn’t provide that.

“I have an idea,” I say. “I know we said we wanted to start fresh somewhere. A place we could make our own.”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

I grin and playfully tweak his nose. “So smart!”

He snorts, and we share a laugh that makes me thankful, once again, I have this man in my life.

I almost let him go. All because I’m terrified of losing him.

Ironic, is all I can think.

“What if,” I say, “you moved into my duplex? The mortgage payment is manageable, and the house is bigger than anything you’ve looked at.

The art studio is already set up, and there’s still a third bedroom.

I know it’s next door to Charlie, but she’s not a problem.

We already respect the boundaries. If your car—or JJ’s—is in the driveway, we don’t bother each other. ”

Jerome shrugs. “I’ve been thinking about that. We’ve been living in our places for so long that I didn’t anticipate how expensive it would be to start over. But what if, and I’m not saying it’ll happen, living together doesn’t work out? I don’t want to ruin—emotionally speaking—your place for you.”

Jerome. Always so thoughtful. I love that about him.

I lean in and kiss him softly, lingering for a few seconds while my body comes to life. We’ve been making up for lost time in the bedroom the last two days, and clearly, I’m not done.

Before my hormones derail this conversation, I back away. “I love you,” I say. “Thank you for thinking ahead and looking at all the angles. No matter what happens with us, I’ll always love you. Always. If we don’t work out, I’d still have a home with a bunch of great memories.”

He holds the phone up again. “It would keep us from dealing with this search.”

“You’d be free of the dreaded rental apps.”

At this, he smiles. “Thank God. It’s your place, Meg. If you’re comfortable with it, I say let’s try it.”

Relief, that glorious loosening of muscles, flows over me. I’ve hated the idea of leaving my house but understood Jerome’s point. He wanted something that was ours, not mine. After his rental hunt, he doesn’t seem all that bothered by us staying in my place.

It makes so much more sense.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of red on the television screen. Breaking news. The anchors are suddenly onscreen. I grab the remote and unmute the volume as Felicia, the lead anchor, begins speaking.

“Alex Hartman, son of local philanthropist Mary Hartman, has been charged with the murder of his cousin, Tiffany. The case has stumped law enforcement for thirty years, and now a local cold case group has helped solve this crime. Let’s go live to Abigail Gaines outside the Hartman mansion, where Citizens Solving Cold Cases is holding a vigil. ”

Oh boy. My mother must be loving this.

The screen cuts to a young brunette reporter, presumably Abigail. The camera pans wide and?—

Yep.

There’s my mother.

Two hours ago, she was at the grocery store stocking up on everything she needed for tomorrow’s meal.

“Isn’t she supposed to be at home with your dad?” Jerome asks.

I hold up a hand and focus on the screen. Mom is wrapped in the coat Charlie gave her for her birthday last year. Perched on her head is a black hat expertly positioned so her hair falls across her forehead.

My mother may be insane, but she knows how to work a camera.

“My father must be losing it. And there goes our fantastic homemade meal.”

I scoop my phone from the coffee table and text Charlie: PUT THE NEWS ON ! NOW !

“Good evening,” Abigail says. “I’m here with Helen Schock, president of Citizens Solving Cold Cases.” She angles to face Mom. “Helen, thank you for joining us. What can you tell us about why you all are out here.”

“Well, Abbie,” Mom begins, her voice thick with concern, “on the anniversary of Tiffany’s death, where else would we be? That child was brutally murdered in this home. A time when all children should feel safe and loved.”

I groan. “She’s really laying it on.”

“Finally,” Mom says, “after years of law enforcement dragging their heels and pandering to the Hartmans, we have an arrest.”

“Oh. My. God,” I say, my voice rising because what in the actual hell is she doing?

Charlie is already on the outs with JJ. This stunt will infuriate him.

It’s bad enough that the U.S. Attorney’s office, JJ’s office, is in disarray after his deputy was arrested. JJ already blames us for interfering in his case, and now Charlie is forced to spend Christmas without him while our mother antagonizes the situation.

I turn to Jerome. “I may have to kill my mother.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“Let’s hope,” Mom continues onscreen, “with all the work done by CSCC and Schock Investigations, that we’ll finally, finally, get justice for this poor child.”

“If she says ‘finally’ one more time,” I say, “I’m absolutely killing her. JJ will make sure I don’t get convicted.”

My phone alerts with an incoming text. Charlie. I mute the television and check the text. A stream of creative profanity fills the screen.

“Yikes,” I say. “Charlie isn’t happy.”

“Can you blame her?”

“Not in the least. JJ is already fending off media inquiries and doing damage control while the press is screaming about how a murderer was on his staff for years and nobody noticed.”

Jerome peels back his lips. “Not a good look. Is the case solid? I mean, is there a chance Alex will get away with it?”

“JJ won’t tell us anything, but Mom heard from her source at the police department that Alex confessed.”

Jerome’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

I nod. “Apparently, Alex, Tiffany, and a few other kids were playing in the basement. Tiffany thought it would be funny to lock him in the panic room. Have I mentioned Alex is claustrophobic?”

“Ouch.”

“Right. She left him in there for a good ten minutes. When his mother started looking for him, Tiffany ran back down to let him out. By then, he was having a full-blown anxiety attack. When she opened the door, he lost it. Total rage. There was construction happening in the basement. He grabbed a hammer and struck her from behind.”

“Jesus. They were kids!”

“It’s horrific. He freaked and ran to get his mother. That’s when the Hartman machine went into action. These people are evil. She told him to get the Sherman purse, and then she hid the hammer in it.”

“Wait,” he says. “Didn’t you tell me there was security footage of Mary taking the bag out the back door to the cottage? Why didn’t she use the tunnel?”

“It wasn’t connected yet. At that time, the only way to the cottage was above ground.

She hid the purse there until the police were done in the main house.

At some point, she took it back to the panic room when she knew the house wouldn’t be searched again.

According to Alex’s confession, his mother was too paranoid to get rid of the murder weapon.

Being the control freak she is, she didn’t want to risk dumping the hammer and someone finding it.

She felt the safest place would be in the panic room. Where she knew it would be safe.”

“Alex gave all this up? Totally implicated Mommy dearest?”

“According to mom’s source, he did. He claims he didn’t need to tamper with any evidence while he’s been at the US Attorney’s office, but he fed his mother information about Charlie for her smear campaign.

Now, Mary is facing a slew of charges. Evidence tampering, accessory after the fact, obstruction… ”

Jerome lets out a whistle. “Merry freaking Christmas.”

How I love him.

“If Alex did confess, and there’s no reason to doubt it, he and Mary will spend most, if not the rest, of their lives in prison.”

“The family name,” he says, “was more important than that little girl. I can’t wrap my mind around that.”

“I’m telling you, evil.”

The image on the television shifts to A Christmas Carol, already in progress.

“Well,” Jerome says, settling back into the cushions, “guess we should plan on bringing food tomorrow. Your mom is obviously not cooking.”

Contemplating this, I curl into Jerome’s side, wondering where, at such late notice, I can get a fully prepped Christmas meal.