Page 78 of The Lost Heiress

“It is,” Ransom said. “He did this all the time at school. He’d pick out girls. They were never the prettiest or the most popular. But they always had money. He would give them attention, and they would buy him things.”

“You’re lying,” Saoirse said. “You’re just saying that to hurt me.”

“I’m not,” Ransom said. “I just never thought he’d have the gall to do that here, under my roof, or I never would have brought him here.”

He reached out to touch her shoulder. He only wanted to comfort her, but she roughly shrugged him off.

“Stop it,” she said. “Why do you always do this? Why can’t I have anything that’s mine? My wants? My desires? Even my mistakes, you take ownership of.”

“Saoirse, I’m not—”

“No,” Saoirse said.

A sudden calm seemed to grip her, a quiet gravity. She reminded him of their mother that time Theo had briefly flirted with the idea of majoring in theater, and Birdie had pursed her lips and said sternly, “We’re not theater people, darling. Why be the jester when you can be the king?” And Theo, quite unlike himself, had dropped it.

“I’m not some porcelain doll you need to keep on a shelf for fear of breaking,” Saoirse said. “I’m not a puppet whose strings you can pull, or a parrot who will say exactly what you want me to. I’m a person, just like you. And just like you, I’m going to love who I want to love, and do the things I want to do, and say the things I want to say.”

Ransom just looked at her; for once, words eluded him.

“And I know you can’t accept that right now,” Saoirse said, “but one day, very soon, you won’t have any choice in the matter.”

Chapter Thirty

Present

The Major Crimes Unit at the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff’s Office was quiet today. It was just the three of them—Detective Church, Deputy McPherson, and Detective Leland, all sitting at their separate workstations. McPherson had the radio on low, listening to a show on NPR. He leaned back in his chair and stretched.

“I’m gonna grab some coffee from the break room,” McPherson said, looking over at Church. “You want anything?”

“I’m good,” Church said. “Thanks.”

“What about you, Leland?” McPherson called.

Church glanced across the room at Leland, who was bent forward, focused intently on his monitor. He hadn’t spoken to Leland since that uncomfortable sit-down with Sergeant Wallis and Sheriff Braverson two weeks ago, when they had handed Leland his ass. It’d been easy enough for Church to avoid Leland since then. Their workstations were on opposite ends of the room. Besides, Church was used to keeping to himself.

Leland shook his head. “Thanks, though,” he said.

As McPherson headed toward the door, Church decided it was time he broke the ice. He saved his work on his monitor and got up and crossed the room.

“Hey,” Church said.

“Hi,” Leland said.

“I saw Nisha the other day,” Church said. “She told me about the 3D facial reconstruction you guys are doing on our John Doe. That was a good idea you had.”

“Well, what’s that thing they say? Necessity is the mother of invention?”

“Ah,” Church said. “You didn’t get any hits on the DNA?”

Leland shook his head. “And the tox report came back negative.”

“Shit,” Church said.

“Makes you wonder—how does a perfectly healthy person drop dead in the middle of a party?” Leland said.

“Heart attack?” Church asked, but Leland shook his head.

“Unlikely. Our John Doe was late twenties or early thirties, average weight.”