Page 17

Our menus lay untouched in the space between Dr. Stephens and Damen. I tentatively pulled one toward me. Neither man noticed, and I proceeded to peruse the selections while they spoke.

I vaguely paid attention as my focus was split between my two equally important tasks. But it was enough.

“We, unofficially, have two cases now.” Damen had moved to business. “It is clear that the incidents at Aine Hamway’s house and Caleb’s murder are connected.” He leaned back, crossing his legs. At the same moment, he swung his arm over the back of my seat.

I could feel his weight pressing against my shoulders. But I was too focused on reading to be embarrassed. Besides, it was chilly in here. Damen was a rather nice human furnace.

That made sense, considering.

However, why did it seem that he was watching me again?

“Yes, I know,” Dr. Stephens said as he tapped his finger on the table. “I’m certain that Michelle Nolan was involved, but she doesn’t appear to have any connections or motive.”

The woman who found Mr. Weaver’s body?

“Michelle is a sweetheart,” Mr. Weaver interjected, looking affronted. “You don’t know her. She wouldn’t help a murderer.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” I glanced at Mr. Weaver.

“Excuse me?” he icily questioned.

“Um…” My face flushed as I touched the menu to my nose.

“I-I mean, you… you said she was frail.” He’d been very clear about this.

“I’m assuming that means she’s smaller than you.

How could she have cut your body from the loft and moved it alone?

You’re tall and would weigh more than a typical woman can lift.

Besides…” I looked away. “If—if she had medical training, she should know better than to move you.”

Mr. Weaver frowned harder .

“At—at least, that’s what I think,” I whispered.

Why was he looking at me like every word out of my mouth was a personal offense?

Didn’t he have any other expressions? Yet, I couldn’t shut up.

“You said she knew where the key was, and she’d been there before.

Couldn’t she have helped someone poison the pork when you weren’t home, waited for you to die, and set everything up to make it look like you killed yourself? ”

He frowned—and I thought he’d be upset—before he said, “Well, she did have access to my house.”

Great. Did that mean I could order my food now?

I glanced around the table, noting that Dr. Stephens had three untouched cups of coffee in front of him.

Well, that made no sense; obviously, one was for me.

I set my menu aside, put my fingertips on the saucer nearest to me, and pulled the little cup closer.

Cream and sugar were already available on the table.

I touched my tongue to my upper lip as I helped myself. A lot of milk and four tablespoons of sugar. So delicious.

“So, what do you think her motive would be?” Dr. Stephens asked. I looked up from my coffee creation and noted that he was watching me in a way that made me squirm.

What? Was I supposed to do his job for him now too?

“I’m not entirely sure,” I answered. “It probably wasn’t her idea at all.”

Dr. Stephens tilted his head. “What makes you think that?”

“Because she was his student and had a long-standing relationship with him,” I told him.

Boy, things on the criminal justice side must be in dire straits these days.

“Since Mr. Weaver was murdered after he started looking into Professor Hamway’s house, she probably heard he was asking around, and knows someone related to them.

” I sat back and took a sip of my coffee.

“I would check her further for connections with the Cole family, but I’m not the professional. ”

I should charge a consultation fee.

“Interesting.” Dr. Stephens steepled his fingers. “See, as the professional, that is exactly what I have been looking into.”

“Oh.” I lowered my drink. Well, that sucked.

“Don’t let Gregory get you down, baby girl,” Damen said, placing his hand over mine. “That was fabulous. You’re a natural.”

I blinked at him. “What?” I asked.

Why was he beaming? And why did my chest feel so warm at the sight?

“You should study with us!” Damen said. “I’ll be working toward my tenure starting next semester.”

My blood cooled. “You want me to take psychology?” I asked, and at his nod, the light feeling in my stomach returned to normal. “I think not,” I said, sipping my coffee.

Damen’s forehead wrinkled, and he sat back, seemingly surprised at my swift rejection. “How come?”

I put my cup on the table and touched my forehead. “I don’t think,” I began, trying to find the words. There were too many reasons to list. I started again, “I don’t agree that putting a label on people and forcing them to talk is helpful.”

“Bianca…” Damen’s expression was cautious. “No one here is going to lock you away. What happened in the past was wrong, but things are different now.”

I looked down and studied what remained of my light brown beverage.

Maybe I could get another.

“Psychology is a vast field with multiple specialties,” Damen said. “Gregory and I are consultants, not therapists.”

I glanced past Damen—toward the middle of the restaurant. Where was our server ?

“Why do you call Dr. Stephens by his first name?” I asked him. “It’s not very polite.”

I ignored Mr. Weaver, which wasn’t difficult since he watched us without commentary, and noted Dr. Stephens and Damen exchanging glances. I hoped that they’d let the subject drop.

Finally, Damen crossed his arms on the table and answered, “I don’t call Gregory by an honorific because things aren’t like that between us,” he explained.

“While he holds a doctorate and is my mentor, he is also someone I’ve known my whole life.

On top of offering his guidance, he enjoys cooking and organizing clutter.

Usually, he and Miles can be found in the kitchen.

When he’s visiting, he’ll keep tabs on visitors. He’s like a motherly—”

Oh my God.

“You’ve turned him into your butler!” I pointed at him, appalled. I knew Damen had a hero complex, but this was going too far. I would bet my left breast that he also had a secret lair under his mansion. “I can’t believe you. Even Proxies deserve respect! Do you make him serve you tea, too?”

What nonsense. Dr. Stephens was mine.

“It’s not like that.” Damen’s cheeks darkened as he grabbed my finger. “And you shouldn’t point at people. You’ll take someone’s eye out.”

“That’s not why you shouldn’t point at people,” Dr. Stephens interjected, leaning back in his seat. “But no, Miss Bianca, I do not serve them tea. That’s something Mr. Miles enjoys doing—he’s quite nurturing.”

He was that, wasn’t he? So delightful.

“But he’s not the best at cleaning up after himself,” Dr. Stephens noted.

Was that so? “He will be now,” I promised, already drawing his future chore chart in my head. All I needed was a dry-erase board and some markers .

“While you ruminate on how you’re going to make the Montrone brat’s life miserable, also keep in mind your other responsibilities,” Mr. Weaver cut in. “Me.”

I glanced at him.

“I was brutally slain on your behalf!” Mr. Weaver exclaimed. “Not that I care too much, but some vengeance would be the very least you could do.”

“You were poisoned,” Dr. Stephens said, tapping his pointer finger on the table. “Not slain.”

Meanwhile, my stomach twisted in guilt. He was right. I clenched my hands to my chest as a sense of duty and obligation filled me.

“Okay,” I told the ghost with a nod. “I will avenge you.”

“You don’t need to avenge him,” Dr. Stephens said drolly. “He should have just taken mine and Bryce’s advice. So it’s his own fault.”

I had no idea what that meant, but it made me sad that I was the only person who seemed upset about this man’s death.

“And I will assist you,” Mr. Weaver said, studying me. “I’ve been looking into your other inquiry.” His gaze flickered to Dr. Stephens with a narrowed-eyed glare, who only raised a brow in response. “I’ll let you know when I know more.”

“What inquiry?” Dr. Stephens pursed his lips. “Why are you suddenly so generous with your effort and expertise?”

Mr. Weaver did not answer him.

The waitress chose that moment to return. “Are you ready to order?” she asked, raising the black notepad and readying her pen. Mr. Weaver took the opportunity to run away while Damen and Dr. Stephens looked at me, and instantly, my thoughts froze.

I’d been so focused on the conversation that I hadn’t focused on the options—or maybe a subconscious part of me didn’t believe that Damen would feed me this time .

I hadn’t decided yet!

But I couldn’t hold everyone up. “I don’t know…” I grabbed the menu once more and attempted to speed-read through the list. What had looked good last time?

I pulled the menu over my mouth and looked at Damen. “Pick something,” I muttered. He knew this place, and he wouldn’t steer me wrong.

“I don’t know.” Damen studied me. “The fish is rather good.”

I wrinkled my nose.

“You’ve always liked fish before…” His voice trailed off. “But the chicken here is excellent as well.” I just watched him, my heart pounding as the waitress eyed us expectantly. Damen turned his attention toward her. “She’ll have the chicken.”

I relaxed as Damen ordered his food, but then my attention flicked to Dr. Stephens, who was giving me the most peculiar look. After our eyes met, he glanced at Damen curiously.

But then the waitress turned to him, and the strange moment had passed. The older man’s severe expression shifted, and—without even looking at the menu once—he placed his order.