"Well, how did it go? Keane asked her as she strapped on her seatbelt.
" She doesn't know about Helen." Rosy replied.
Keane turned on the ignition and pulled out the car into the driveway. They would be back at the headquarters in an hour. But first he wanted to see the crime scene himself, even though he knew the place had already been cleaned by forensics. They drove through slush-clogged streets to Grant Jones' house. The building stood defiant against the snow. Inside, emptiness devoured, a forlorn echo that swallowed Rosy and Keane as they entered.
The air was still heavy with stale liquor and faint chemical residue. Rosy walked slowly, her hand brushing the walls as if she were tracing Jones' final steps. She paused by the coffee table whose cracked edges still held memories of last night.
"He was drinking here," she said. "He poured her a glass too. Two cups. Only one finished."
Keane sniffed. "If the whiskey was poisoned, when did she spike it? It certainly can't be in his presence."
"Maybe he went to fetch the glasses and she was left alone with the bottle. That space of time must have been enough."
" So it is likely she did the pouring," Keane said.
"And waited for him to drink first," Rosy completed.
Keane crouched, studying the floor.
"From another angle, you know what I see? A lonely man who drank too much, maybe took something extra to numb the pain of divorce. I think you're making a ghost out of a napkin and shattered glass."
Rosy spun around. "You think this is about his wife leaving? Keane, he was careful. He didn't bring strangers here. Whoever she was, she knew him—or she made him trust her fast."
Keane leaned back on his heels, watching her with that cool detachment he always wore. "You want this to mean something because it's easier than admitting he was just another drunk cop in this rotten town."
"He wasn't just another drunk cop. He was my friend. He was—" she stopped herself, clenching her fists. "I believe his death wasn't mindless or meaningless either. This is bigger than one bad night."
"Do you know what I believe?" Keane stood, brushing unseen particles from his knees. "I believe people die stupid, meaningless deaths every damn day. Just bad fate and worse choices."
Their eyes locked and right then, Rosy felt like pouncing on him and strangling him.
"I guess we're looking at the same room through two different lenses then."
"Yeah," Keane said, pessimistic as ever. "And one of us is likely going to get burned."
Back at the Department headquarters, Rosy typed her own notes into the system long after most detectives had gone home. Keane lingered by her desk, watching her.
" So, what next from here? You really gonna keep digging?" he asked.
Rosy wondered if Keane was developing cold feet already or was just being his usual annoying self.
"Yes," she said without looking up. "Because if we don't, she'll strike again. And next time it won't just be a man drowning in whiskey. It'll be someone else in uniform. Maybe you. Maybe me."
Keane shoved his hands into his pockets. "You want to play the hero, fine. But I think this is a wild goose chase. I'm here to keep people alive, not chase your ghosts and half-baked guesses with blinded faith."
Rosy finally met his eyes. Everything about him annoyed her.
" My faith doesn't make me blind, Keane. It makes me bold. And I'd rather be bold and wrong than silent and complicit."
He held her gaze for a long moment, then exhaled sharply and shook his head. "You really do unsettle me sometimes, Lawson."
"Good," she said, turning back to her screen. "You must know this, Keane, this investigation is just getting started. "
By the time she returned to their apartment, night had fallen. The sleet had thickened into hard pellets of ice, rattling against the windows. She tossed her boots aside, her coat draped over the chair, and collapsed onto the couch. Her sister and her bundle of joy, Alex, had gone to bed. That explained the quiet. When Alex was awake, the house was always upside down. A handful he was. Thinking of him made her dream of getting married. She was thirty-five with seven failed relationships trailing at her wake. The bone of contention: she wasn't ready to have sex yet till a ring was put on her finger. It was a value Margaret passed on to them. When Charity got pregnant before taking her marital vows, it broke their mother. Rosy had promised herself never to go down that road, but Michael, her recent admirer, was making her feet wobble. She couldn't fathom how a man could be so breathtakingly handsome yet humble, rich yet reasonable, and to crown it all, he was a believer like her. The mere thought of him brought a smile to her lips.
After taking a hot shower, she poured herself a cup of hot chocolate–coffee would keep her awake and all she needed now was a long sound sleep. Her Bible sat on the side table, its pages worn thin by passionate use. She'd bought it the day she gave her life to Christ. That was six years ago. She still remembered that day, the peace that flooded her heart after telling the Lord to come into her life. It was the best decision she had ever made. She picked up her Bible, her cup of tea in one hand, and climbed into her bed. She sipped from her cup and placed it on the drawer beside the bed stand. She opened to the Psalms and read silently, her lips moving with the familiar words. But the verses felt distant tonight, as if she were mouthing them from the bottom of a well. Her prayers had been for wisdom. For steady steps. But she could feel it already; the path before her wasn't straight. It twisted, dark and narrow, winding back to the name that haunted her.
Helen.
The snow outside thickened, blanketing Luton Bay in white silence. Somewhere in the dark, a woman named Helen was already choosing her next target.