Page 37 of Best Served Cold
The detective nodded, taking another sip of his hot chocolate, and it was then that Lee regretted serving it to him in the first place, as if the act of drinking delaying his response by two to three seconds was enough to send her over the edge, enough to make her confess. “That lines up exactly with what Morgan said,” he said, pulling out a small notebook and a ballpoint pen from his trouser pocket. “Could you tell me the name of the thrift store so that I may verify?”
“The Hidden Wardrobe," Lee relayed, almost mechanically, memorizing the alibi that Morgan and herself had concocted after being interviewed the first time as the detective jotted the information down. “We donated a teapot, and some other items I can’t recall at the top of my head. Some old books, I believe.”
“Perfect. My next question was in fact about the items you donated, so you read my mind.”
Lee hesitated for a moment, acknowledging the fact that this same detective had visited Morgan that same morning. “Did Morgan not provide you with this information earlier?”
The detective smiled, and Lee hated him for it. “She did,” he confirmed, nodding again like an animated bobblehead. “I just wanted to make sure that the both of you were on the same page. I have no further questions to ask you.”
Lee Holmes was unsure if either of them had been on the same page during the entirety of their five-year relationship. Alas, she had escaped this interview unscathed without even the slightest mention of Arthur, and going through the intricacies of her time with Morgan Finch was something she would have to unpack another time.
Should she ever choose to unpack it at all, that is.
“Oh, one more thing,” the detective said, looking at her with such an intent gaze that Lee began to truly believe he was going to burn a hole through her face. “Are you familiar with a Mr Arthur Strickland?”
Shit.
Lee knew that a question like this one required no hesitation, and so she put her anxiety aside, gritted her teeth, and got on with it. “I am,” she said, matter-of-factly. “I’m doing an article on him currently, in fact. I’m a journalist.”
And then, with the minute amount of confidence that she had, she pushed further. “As far as I’m aware he might be connected to the disappearance of this Edward Beckett guy. Something about a driver's license?” she asked, feigning her best curious voice in the process.
The detective smiled, his eyes slightly creased, as if curious himself as to her line of questioning. For a moment, Lee thought she had pushed too far, until he took another sip of his chocolate and began to speak. “We prefer not to talk about the formalities of the case, Miss Holmes,” he said, using her surname now as opposed to her first name, as if she had just been shed the luxury of first-name pleasantries. “But with that being said, should you learn anything that might prove useful in your own investigation as a journalist as to Arthur Strickland’s whereabouts, please, do let us know.”
“I will,” she lied, offering him the same curious look back.
The atmosphere in the room shifted with nothing but silence to linger idly amongst the four walls as he finished his hot chocolate and departed a few minutes later.
Chapter Thirty-One
Lee Holmes awoke to a headache Saturday morning and a text from Morgan Finch. The timestamp indicated that Morgan had sent her message a little after 3:00am, a time in which Lee herself was also likely tossing and turning, but despite falling in and out of sleep when she went to bed, she had managed to sleep through the notification, instead animating her screen to life at 6:07am with one hand as she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes with the other.
M 3:04am: could we talk? not now, obviously, unless you cant sleep either. maybe i could come over sometime in the morning? or the afternoon. whatever works for you.
Her index finger stroked the edge of her phone whilst she contemplated how, or even if, she should respond. She imagined Morgan being unable to sleep, tossing and turning in her hotel bed whilst she herself had been tossing and turning in her own—the bed that used to be theirs. When they had been together,her girlfriend had never had trouble sleeping, and it was something Lee had always been envious of. If parts of Morgan had rubbed off on Lee, now, like her love for all things criminal, then perhaps parts of Lee had also rubbed off on Morgan. Her insomnia wasn’t her finest trait, and yet, it appeared that it was a trait of hers that had become newly shared regardless.
Sinking further into her pillow, as if the comfort could protect her, she sighed, and began typing.
Lee H 6:11am: Come over whenever you’re ready and we can have a chat.
When her phone vibrated just seconds after hitting send, she found herself surprised to find another text from Morgan. She wondered at that moment if her ex-girlfriend had managed to get any sleep at all.
M 6:11am: perfect. i have to drive my mom to work this morning because her car is at the shop, but i’ll come by afterwards?
Lee H 6:12am: I’ll be here.
She had once compared waiting for Morgan Finch to be not unlike waiting for a bus in the pouring rain. Today it felt like waiting for a doctor's appointment. She was in a waiting room of her own making, lounging into the couch cushions as she tried and failed to read the book she had been trying and failing to read for a little over a month now. Her eyes hovered over the text, if it even was text at that point, seeming more and more like hieroglyphics the longer her eyes focused.
She admitted defeat approximately twenty minutes after attempting the task, placing the book down upon the coffee table as she leaned back against the arm of the couch, propping herlegs up as her left arm fell slack against the side of it. The waiting room inside her mind suddenly became a therapist's office as she lay across the couch pondering all of her life choices up until that very moment.
Lee Holmes didn’t have a time machine, and yet it certainly felt like she had stepped into one, given the fact that she had just arranged an in-person discussion with Morgan Finch over text message. She still felt the butterflies inside her stomach from five years prior like a phantom limb, and she could feel them more than ever that very morning; their wings like dozens of tiny heartbeats inside of her.
When the familiar sound of knuckles tapping against the door came into play, the tiny heartbeats became all of her, her entire body pulsing with anxiety. As she went to stand, her legs almost gave out from underneath her as her vision began to blur. All of the blood inside of her rushed to her face all at once, to her ears where it tapped against them like a speaker, like knuckles tapping against a door.
Propping a hand on top of the armrest, she took a few deep breaths and reminded herself that the woman at the door was the same woman she had known and loved for five years. The same woman she had made pancakes for, the same woman that had shared her bed, her heart, and her body. Facing Morgan Finch was like facing herself in the mirror—it was only scary if she let it be.
And so, as she made her way into the hallway on her less-than-steady legs, taking less-than-certain steps, she breathed out a few more times, and pulled back the front door.
The face that greeted her was the same face that stepped into this apartment every day after work. The same face that had given her flowers on bad days, and kisses on good ones. And yet, despite it being the same face, the features seemed more toneddown, not sunken, but lowered, like a lightbulb that needed changing.
