A Beautiful Corpse. Christi Daugherty

a few months ago, replacing the group of art students who had previously occupied it. The lawyer worked a lot and kept reasonable hours. No more late-night parties that left the entire house smelling of pot smoke and incense. No more strange music permeating the ceiling at all hours.

      To her own surprise, Harper missed the kids. The house was almost too quiet these days.

      Her keys jangled as she fitted one after another into the three, high-security locks on the solid front door.

      As the door opened, the burglar alarm gave a series of shrill, warning beeps, and she punched in the four-digit code that silenced it.

      She’d had the alarm fitted after her apartment was broken into last year.

      There hadn’t been another incident but she was hyper-aware that the person who’d done it hadn’t been identified. And she didn’t know what he wanted or why he’d targeted her.

      She crossed the entrance hall to the living room and flipped on the lights.

      Hardwood floors gleamed. There wasn’t much furniture – two dark gray sofas facing each other across a low coffee table. All of it hospital clean.

      The place looked a bit like a furniture showroom, in part because everything still had a sheen of newness.

      Almost all her previous furniture had been damaged in the break-in. After her insurance paid out, she’d replaced the lot. Doing it that way made sense but it gave her the occasional disconcerting sense that someone else lived here. And that this was their stuff.

      From the kitchen, a small shadow darted toward her.

      A sleek, gray tabby rubbed itself against her ankle.

      ‘Hey, Zuzu,’ Harper said, bending down to stroke her soft fur. ‘Did you chase away any burglars today?’

      Purring, the cat led her to the kitchen.

      She pulled a can from the half-empty cupboard, found a spoon in the dish drainer from that morning and put some tuna into her dish.

      As the cat ate, she pulled a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey from the cupboard and poured a double shot into a water glass.

      It had been a long time since she let herself think about Luke.

      She’d underestimated how much it would hurt to see him, and not be anything special to him. Just a woman he used to know.

      Their conversation had been so normal. They used to have conversations like that all the time. Until they ruined it.

      She swallowed the whiskey neat and poured herself another.

      One drink wouldn’t be enough. Not if she was going to think about this stuff. There wasn’t enough whiskey in the world.

      The night Lieutenant Smith was arrested, Luke had been the one to come to her aid. After Smith shot her, it had been Luke who’d knelt over her body, trying to stop the bleeding.

      She could remember every detail of that night. The fear in his voice. His hands trying to hold back the fountain of blood.

      After that, though, he’d avoided her for weeks.

      Finally, one day, he’d called her.

      ‘I’m sorry for disappearing on you,’ he’d said, far too casually. ‘We need to talk.’

      He’d chosen a neutral spot – a bar neither of them frequented regularly. When she walked in and saw him sitting there, a bottle of beer untouched on the table in front of him she’d felt helpless with longing.

      She could tell from the moment she sat down next to him that it was over. There were things she had to say though.

      ‘I wanted to thank you,’ she’d said, ‘for saving my life.’

      He’d looked uncomfortable. ‘You don’t need to thank me. I was doing my job.’

      ‘Like hell you were,’ she’d said. ‘You risked your life for me. At least let me say thank you.’

      Their eyes met and she felt the connection between them like a blast of furnace heat.

      A muscle in his jaw fluttered – the only sign that he felt it, too.

      ‘I would have been there sooner, but I couldn’t get to my phone,’ he’d said, after a long silence. ‘I got your message too late.’

      She wouldn’t let him downplay his role. ‘You were there when it mattered. I’m only sorry I had to drag you into it. I know it was the last thing you wanted.’

      At that, his face hardened. ‘You getting hurt was the last thing I wanted. It didn’t have to happen. You’re just so damned stubborn …’

      Stopping himself, he’d reached for his beer, taking a quick swig.

      ‘Luke, I hope you can understand why I did what I did,’ Harper pleaded, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘I truly believed I could solve my mother’s murder if I solved that case. I only wish there was some way I could make it up to you for everything I did that hurt you.’

      She leaned forward, begging him to understand. Surely anyone who knew her history would see why it meant so much to her. Who wouldn’t push the limits to solve their own mother’s murder?

      He’d looked up from his beer then, studying her with those enigmatic eyes – dark blue, like a midnight sky.

      ‘I know you do.’ His flat tone shattered her hopes. ‘But that’s not how things work. Trust doesn’t come back because you want it to. Some things you break can’t be fixed.’

      They’d talked for a while after that, and then parted, knowing it was over.

      They’d barely spoken again. Until tonight.

      Raising the glass to her lips in a swift, economical movement, she downed the second whiskey, waiting as it traced a line of fire down her throat to her heart.

      Some of the tension in her body released. She let out a long, shuddering breath.

      He’d be working her shift from now on.

      Maybe that wasn’t so bad.

      Maybe they’d find a way to forgive each other.

      But in her heart she knew that was only another dream.

       Chapter Eight

      The next day, Harper arrived at the newspaper at noon with no story to write.

      There’d been a time when she could have called Detective Daltrey and teased a few snippets of information out of her, but those days were over.

      After her conversation with Bonnie, she’d hoped Naomi Scott’s father might get in touch but, so far, her phone hadn’t rung. She’d tried his home number several times, but her calls went straight to voicemail.

      She couldn’t blame him – his only daughter had died the day before. But still.

      Dropping her bag next to her desk, she switched on her computer and turned her scanner on low, right as DJ walked into the room from the back hallway.

      ‘Not you again,’ he said cheerily.

      Harper ignored this.

      ‘Is Baxter around? Please say no.’

      ‘OK. No,’ he replied, before adding with an apologetic wince, ‘But she is. She’s in Dells’s office right now. Why? What did you do?’

      ‘Nothing, and that’s the problem.’ Harper reached for her coffee. ‘I haven’t got anything new on River Street. My source didn’t come through.’

      ‘Oh, you’re screwed then,’ DJ assured her. ‘Because she’s been telling everyone the update will be live at one o’clock. Says you’ve got an exclusive with the dad.’