Page 3 of The Rose and the Hound (Ashes and Roses #2)

I had entered a rabbit warren by digging into Rose’s past. She had changed her name, and through a little investigation, I found she was once Rose Fennech.

Fuck. Try Googling that and not needing a whiskey straight after.

The woman had been institutionalized for stalking and assault.

No wonder she was so standoffish. It was difficult to reconcile the “psycho” described in the articles with the broken woman who’d been in my office.

She seemed quiet, sweet, and very unsure of herself. She’d served her time and had done nothing to raise any red flags with me. My Zahra was determined to keep this professional and impersonal and now I understand why. She didn’t trust herself. I understood that. I understood that very well.

The Fennech name had led to a dead end. Colin Fennech died years ago and was not Rose’s father.

A DNA test had been done a year after her sentence.

It was easy enough to check that (I already admitted my methods were sometimes gray).

However, I couldn’t access her psych records.

That was a step too far for me, and likely wasn’t possible even with my dubious connections.

I sighed, closing the windows on my screen.

Barbara Harrod could wait until tomorrow.

Her husband was definitely cheating, but she’d talked herself out of believing the proof I’d provided.

At this rate, her husband could put on a live sex show in front of her and she’d reason that it was an apparition.

I’d cut her loose soon. She was so entrenched in cognitive dissonance that she was never going to leave him anyway.

It was sad. I found adultery cases a little dull, but they veered into the tragic territory when the partners either didn’t believe it or chose not to act, even if the cheater was remorseless and a habitual offender.

“See you tomorrow, Ruth. I’ll be out in the morning finalizing the Harrod case, but will be back by lunch.”

“Bye, PI man. So, we’re pushing ahead with the Myrtle case? She’s a bit cold, that one.”

“Yes, I’ll try to help her. It’s all a bit vague, but it’ll add a bit of variety to the all the infidelity investigations.” And Zahra needed some closure, some understanding.

“Well, I hope it all words out. You’re like a damned dog with a bone, so if there’s something to find, you’ll find it,” Ruth said, shutting down her computer.

I was a very committed investigator. I found it difficult to give up on things.

This meant I was often frustrated, but it also meant my closure rate was above industry standards.

I wasn’t going to tell Rose that I knew about her, though surely she knew it wouldn’t be difficult to dig up her past, especially for a professional investigator.

But she hadn’t been forthcoming about it, so I assume she wanted it to remain buried.

She had no social media, likely another measure to cut herself off and remain distant from others and worked in a factory as a packer.

It was the kind of job where you could have as little or as much contact with others as you wanted.

I pictured my Zahra working efficiently and engaging very little with her colleagues.

She’d obviously had a rough childhood. She didn’t know her dad and for someone who had once valued close connections, she was estranged from her mother.

What had her mother done to her? I wasn’t a psychologist, but I knew that stalkers usually had some kind of dysfunction in their development and upbringing that led them to obsess with a target.

I’d worked plenty of stalking cases. My involvement was usually limited to identifying an anonymous stalker, but many of the stories had the same threads.

Obsession, some kind of personality disorder, feelings of abandonment.

It was sad. Some of these cases ended violently, as had Rose’s with her doctor, but some ended with the offender entering much-needed psychiatric care.

Other stalkers continued to live out in the open, careful to follow the rules enough to ensure they weren’t caught.

I understood that kind of stalker well. Very well.

I'll help you my little Zahra, and I'll keep my distance.