Page 26 of 4th Silence (Schock Sisters Mystery #4)

Charlie

T hanks to Meg and Jerome, Mom’s dining room table groans under the weight of steaming dishes of rosemary potatoes, a glistening ham, and colorful salads. Mom has added her signature sweet rolls, which smell like childhood Christmases at this same table. And me? I brought wine.

Dad’s laugh is infectious. Mom gestures wildly as she tells her version of how she nailed Alex. Yes, it was all her if you buy this story. Meg and Jerome argue good-naturedly about the Nationals’ prospects.

I smile and nod at the right moments, but all I can think about is JJ’s face when he dropped me off at my house--his no-holds-barred speech and his parting words.

“Charlie?” Mom’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “Would you like more wine?”

Damn straight I do. But I have to be sober enough to drive home. Still, I push my glass forward, wondering if the second glass might dull the ache in my chest. Meg refills my water, giving me a concerned look. Or is it pity?

Dad eagle-eyes me. “You okay, kiddo? You’ve been quiet tonight.”

“Just tired,” I lie, taking a sip. It’s not really a lie. I am tired. Tired of the emotions that have left me wrung out and brittle.

What I can’t say is that I keep replaying the last conversation I had with JJ in my head. “You’d think he’d ease up on being right all the time,” I mutter under my breath, stabbing a potato.

“What was that?” Mom asks.

“Nothing. These potatoes are amazing.”

Meg clears her throat. Jerome’s honey-blond hair is pulled back in a neater-than-usual low bun, and he’s upgraded from his typical grunge clothes to preppy. The sight of him looking so conventional is cute, and I’m happy about Meg’s decision to live with him.

He gives Meg’s hand a quick squeeze. “Hey, Charlie,” he says, sliding a dish my way. “Want to try my famous seven-layer dip?”

“By ‘famous’ he means he once won third place at a neighborhood cookout,” Meg stage-whispers, making everyone laugh.

“It was second place,” Jerome corrects with mock indignation.

I watch them, envying that easy comfort between two people who understand each other. The ache in my chest intensifies.

My sister catches my eye as I politely take a scoop of the dip. “We agreed—no cold cases this weekend. Don’t tell me you’re working tonight, of all nights.”

I shake my head. “Just admiring Jerome’s transformation. Did you dress him, or did he manage that sweater all by himself?”

“Hey!” Jerome protests good-naturedly, although Meg gives me a warning glance. She can’t decide if I’m teasing or being snarky. I’m not sure, either. “I’ll have you know I picked this out without any assistance,” Jerome says.

“And it only took him three tries,” Meg adds, as she serves herself some fruit salad.

A timer goes off in the kitchen, and Mom jumps to her feet. “The pie!”

She rushes out and Dad joins her. “Don’t burn yourself,” he calls to her.

Meg leans forward. “Seriously, are you okay? You’ve got that thousand-yard stare you get when you’re profiling people.”

I wave her off and take another sip of wine. “It’s nothing.”

“Uh-huh. And this has nothing to do with a certain tall, dark, and lawyerly man whose name rhymes with ‘Hey-Hey’?”

I nearly choke on my wine. “How many gummies have you had today?”

She rolls her eyes. Jerome chuckles. “I can vouch that she only had the recommended dose to get through this dinner.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes, although it’s actually a smart move. “Did you bring any brownies?”

“That bad, huh?” Jerome asks, knowing that I never indulge.

Meg points her fork at me. “Come on, spill. What happened with Mr. Perfect Suit?”

I push food around on my plate. “Nothing. It’s fine.”

“Your face doesn’t say ‘fine.’ It says, ‘I’m pretending to be at this dinner while mentally rehearsing conversations with a man who isn’t here.’”

I toy with my glass. “Look at me—totally present and enjoying this lovely family dinner. See? No problems here.”

Meg mercifully drops the subject as Mom and Dad return, the pie safely cooling and not burned—an unusual state of affairs.

Mom asks Jerome about his latest art commission, and I exhale slowly, grateful for the reprieve. I take another bite of ham, tasting nothing. All I can think about is whether JJ is eating Christmas dinner alone. Nothing but leftovers and a legal pad.

Meg kicks me under the table.

“...and then the anchor asked me about my determination to solve Tiffany’s case.

” Mom’s voice rises with excitement as she gestures with her fork, nearly sending a piece of glazed carrot flying.

“I told him it was my duty. Inspiring the cold case group is my passion. You should’ve seen his face when I broke down the psychological profile I developed on Alex Hartman. ”

She developed? Huh.

Her eyes snap with the same intensity they had when Meg and I were kids, watching her hunched over newspaper clippings at the kitchen table.

Except now, the entire family is her captive audience as she recounts her moment in the spotlight.

“The producer says they’re considering having me back as a recurring expert,” she continues.

“Only a few months at the Crime Desk, and I’m getting the recognition I deserve. ”

Dad squeezes her hand. “You’re brilliant, honey. I recorded it. Twice, actually, because I thought the first one might not have caught everything.”

“It wouldn’t have happened without you girls, of course.” Mom glances between Meg and me. “I made sure to mention you, you know.”

“For about fifteen seconds,” Meg whispers, but her smile remains genuine.

Dad forks up some ham. “What matters is that everyone is safe. When I think about what could have happened...” His voice cracks. “I don’t care how good the story is—nothing’s worth losing any of you.”

Mom nods. “Absolutely right.”

I manage a smile. The case is closed, the danger past, my family safe. All the boxes of a happy ending are neatly checked.

So why do I feel like I’m watching the celebration through a pane of glass, unable to truly connect with the joy around me?

Mom segues into talking about the makeup artist and cameraman, how they finally got her good side. Dad hangs on every word, pride radiating from him. Jerome and Meg exchange knowing glances, amused by Mom’s dramatic storytelling.

Mom raises her glass. “To justice and good journalism.”

“And to family,” Dad adds.

I lift my glass mechanically. “To family,” I echo, wondering if anyone else can hear how hollow the words sound.

Mom scrutinizes my plate. “Charlie, you’ve barely touched your dinner.”

The potatoes have gone cold. Most everyone else is done and ready for pie. I seize the opportunity, setting my napkin beside my plate. “I need to call it a night.” I stand and smooth my skirt. “Dinner was lovely. Thank you.” I lean down to kiss Dad’s cheek, then Mom’s. “Merry Christmas.”

Meg rises and envelops me in a hug. “Call me,” she whispers fiercely in my ear.

“I will,” I promise, knowing she’ll be banging on my door before the night’s over.

Matt calls me on the way home. “Merry Christmas. Thanks for the bonus. Thought the coffers were empty.”

I’m at a stoplight and use it to keep from looking directly at his mug on the screen. The dip into my 401(k) came with a hefty fee. The six pairs of designer shoes I sold online have left a big hole in my closet. Still worth it. “Santa rewards the faithful.”

He snorts. In the background, Taylor waves at me over his shoulder. “Hey, Charlie. Merry Christmas.”

Their place is festooned from top to bottom with lights, garland, and a pile of discarded wrapping paper near a giant spruce. “Merry Christmas.”

“I have a present for you,” Matt says.

The light changes, and traffic begins to move. “That’s sweet, but I don’t need anything.”

“We’re not leaving D.C.” Taylor leans down so her face is next to his. “I’ve been offered a position here that’s even better than Atlanta.”

“You’re staying?”

Matt gives me that knock-out smile of his. “Thought you were getting rid of me, didn’t you?”

A weight lifts off my chest. “Congratulations, Taylor.”

She shrugs immodestly. “Garrett Hastings reached out. He’s forming a new task force, and my skills fit.”

My former boss. I didn’t call in his favor to help resolve Tiffany’s case, but he’s on the mayor’s new federal review team. Now, SAC Hastings has helped me in a whole other way. I’d better order him a gift basket. “He’s tough but a stand-up guy. You’ll like him.”

“I’ll be in tomorrow,” Matt says. “Try to stay out of the news until then, okay?”

I give him a half-hearted smile. “No promises.”

My half of the duplex greets me with blessed silence, a stark contrast to the symphony of voices and clattering dishes I left behind. I slip off my heels at the door, my feet sinking into the plush area rug as I flick on the entryway light.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming home.”

My heart catapults. JJ lounges in the dimness of my living room, illuminated only by the streetlights filtering through the blinds. He’s in a charcoal Tom Ford suit that fits his expression, his eyes watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

“Breaking and entering is a federal offense, Counselor,” I manage, though my voice betrays me.

He rises, all six-foot-four of him unfolding with his usual effortless grace, but under it is a level of sheer exhaustion. “I still have a key.”

He does. Damn. “Abuse of power. Add it to the list.”

A ghost of a smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “I brought wine.” He gestures toward my kitchen counter, where an open bottle of cabernet breathes beside two glasses. “And an apology.”

I don’t move, trying to reconcile the rush of conflicting emotions—the anger that’s been simmering for days, the relief at seeing him, the apprehension about what comes next. “You could have called.”

“You wouldn’t have answered.”

His certainty stings only because it’s true. Maybe. I’m not sure at this point. “You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”