“You’re not still full from that steak?” He can’t help it. Really, he can’t.
“That was wrong,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
Another apology. Curiouser and curiouser.
Something worse must be coming, something she is working up to. Ivy wouldn’t go through all this for nothing. If all she wanted to do was apologize, she would show up at his house with a giant balloon bouquet. Or naked under a coat. She’s done both before.
But this is weird.
“Is that why I’m here?” he says. “To hear you apologize?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
She shrugs and eats another cheese cube. “There is one other thing,” she says.
“And what might that be?”
“It’s the detective,” she says.
Karen Colglazier. He should have seen this coming. “What about her?”
“I didn’t tell you everything she said.”
Now he gets it. He has caught up to what’s really happening. And he needs a second to prepare himself. Wes takes a big sip of wine, stretching the moment out for as long as he can.
Part of him wants to ask why she didn’t tell him last night, because now he wants to know what kind of game she’s playing. Why hold it back? What good does that do either one of them? Doesn’t make any sense.
The other part of him knows that’s the least important part of this situation. The fact that a detective has fixated on them is the only thing he should be concerned with.
But old habits never die; they just go dormant.
“Why are you telling me this now?” he asks.
“Because you deserve to know. I should’ve told you last night.” She reaches over and puts her hand on his knee. “But you were such a dick at dinner. I didn’t think it was the right time.”
Fair.
A lot of things go through his mind. They come so fast his brain is a jumble of words. Half of them say to believe her. The other half remembers the past.
Wes had spent years trying to figure out if Ivy gives off any signs—like a tell in poker—when she lies. He has tested her, asking questions he knew the answers to and studying the way her eyes moved, if anything twitched, whether or not she smiled.
No. She does not have a tell.
He is forced to go with his gut. Not the most reliable source, in his experience, but it’s all he’s got. And it’s telling him she’s being honest, but that there’s more to this story. Always is.
To stall for time, he grabs an apple slice. He stretches that apple out for three bites when it should’ve been one.
“That night,” he finally says.
“Yes.”
He takes another sip of wine, even bigger this time. If they’re going to talk about that night, he needs it.
24
Above the Siphon building, the night sky is dark. A thin slice of moon keeps it from looking black.
Along with the flashing lights from all the police cars.
Detective Karen Colglazier walks up to the front door, where she is greeted by two uniformed cops. She knows them, particularly the short one, who did a good job on one of her crime scenes. It gives her some hope this will be handled right.
“What floor?” she says.
“Third.”
“Thanks.”
Inside, the lobby is quiet. A crescent-shaped reception desk is clear of clutter, the computer dark. The floor is polished, the windows staggeringly clear, exactly how it looked when she was here before. It makes Karen want to press her hand up against the glass.
On the third floor, another cop stands guard. A young man who has been on the force less than a year. He nods to her, his face grim as he hands her plastic booties to cover her shoes.
“How’s it look?” she says.
“Not good.”
The floor is lined with cubicles that run almost end to end. In the distance, she sees movement on the far right. The sales department.
She knew there was more to this. As soon as she heard the Siphon address on the scanner, she knew.
The closer she gets, the stronger the smell is. People always compare the smell of blood to copper, but it isn’t really the same. Blood has a distinct odor to anyone who has been around enough of it. Cops get nonchalant about it, even dismissive.
Karen is the same. Blood doesn’t bother her because she refuses to let it.
The endless grey cubicles block her view until she emerges on the other side, where everything looks a little familiar. But not. The plush grey carpet is now soaked in blood. So much blood.
A voice comes from down the hall, rising above the rest.
“Cameras? Yes, we have them over the front doors, and in the lobby. Not in the offices.”
Karen tilts her head to look toward the voice, recognizing the speaker immediately. The CEO of Siphon is Ian Kelley, who is also the face of the company. He is in the media quite a bit—often with his husband, a local artist, and their giant dog, a Newfoundland.
Ian is about forty and dressed in a designer shirt, khakis, and expensive shoes that aren’t covered with booties. Because when the police call in the middle of the night, you can’t forget the Italian loafers. Or maybe that’s all he owns.
Karen’s shoes cost $19.99 on clearance. They’re also real leather.
She feels bad for the cops who have to interview him. Not easy to get information out of someone who isn’t used to being questioned by anyone.
“Karen? What are you doing here?”
Louis Knox, another detective, is standing behind her. They’ve been working together for years. She pretended to be happy for Louis when he was promoted to detective before she was, and he pretended to believe it.
He calls her Karen, as everyone else does, because Colglazier is not the ideal surname for a detective. For a while, the other cops called her Cole but it didn’t stick. Karen did. That was long before the name became popular on social media, before she was a meme instead of a human being. She uses it to her advantage, because people have a preconceived notion about who she is. Acting against type catches them off guard.
“I heard a woman was assaulted,” she says to Louis. “It was on the scanner.”
“That’s the story, yeah. But it’s a murder investigation.”
“Lot of blood.”
“She was standing here.” Louis points to a desk. There’s blood on top and on the floor in front of it. The only clean surface is the center of the desk. “She grabbed the scissors and stabbed him in the neck.”
The jugular. Explains all the blood, along with the clear spot on the desk. That’s where the blood hit the woman instead.
She must have been covered in it.
Louis is right: Karen has no reason to be here. When she first heard about the incident on the police scanner, she ignored it. Not her problem. But then she recognized the address, because she had been here to talk with Wes Harmon.
“Who was he?” she says.
“Tanner Duncan. Head of the sales department.” Louis checks his phone, where he always keeps his notes. “The assistant did it. Bianca . . . Bianca Mercado.”
Karen remembers her. Pretty, young, and very professional. The buttoned-up-tight kind.
“Where is she now?” Karen says.
“Hospital.”
“She’s hurt?”
“Physically, I don’t think so.” Louis shrugs, his jacket rising a few inches, because his shoulders are that big. “But she was hysterical.”