*
The paramedics were able to stabilize Peter and he was rushed off to the hospital. Unfortunately, he remained in a coma, but I was hopeful that as soon as he recovered, he would be able to name his attacker.
One question remained, though. What had his attacker been searching for? Kevin had insisted that Peter was already knocked out when she arrived. If she wasn’t lying—and that was a big “if”—then someone else had been in the room looking for something. Was it the cookbook? Who else wanted to get their hands on it?
As the police hauled Kevin off for questioning, she continued to maintain that she hadn’t hurt anyone. She only wanted the cookbook, insisting that it belonged to her. She claimed that Peter had stolen it for her, which seemed wildly improbable.
The uniformed officer at the scene looked at me quizzically. “Do you know what cookbook she’s yelling about?”
“I have no idea,” I said with an innocent shrug.
Part of me lived in fear that once Kevin was sitting in interrogation, facing Inspectors Jaglom and Lee, she would break down and tell them that I’d taken the cookbook. But since she hadn’t specifically pointed the finger at me yet, I wondered if she, like me, would rather keep the fragile old book out of police hands.
I would have to wait and see.
*
An hour later, Derek clutched the wheel of the Bentley so tightly that his knuckles were turning white.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “But when I found out that Obedience Green’s cookbook had been stolen from the Gipping-on-Plym village museum fifteen years ago, I had to find Kevin and Peter and ask them about it.”
His jaw worked as if a hot torrent of words was fighting to get out and he was only barely managing to keep them back. Finally, he ground out, “And you didn’t once consider that you might be facing a killer with nothing to lose and no fear of multiple fatalities?”
I thought about his words for a moment. Okay, maybe he had a point. And the way he put it really made me cringe. Hmm. “No. I honestly never thought that either Kevin or Peter was capable of doing what was done to Baxter and Monty. I just thought they might know more about the cookbook than they were letting on.”
He sent me a quick look that was filled with so many emotions, it was hard to read them all. I did pick up on the love and the fear and the frustration, though. “You know you scared the living daylights out of me—and that’s not an easy thing to admit.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Derek.” I really did feel terrible. The downside to being in a loving relationship was the fact that you could make each other crazy with worry. Of course, as far as I could see, that was the only downside. “I wasn’t thinking, really. And I so didn’t expect to walk into another crime scene.” Tears sprang to my eyes. Sadly, I’d done this to him before and been gut-wrenched by his reaction.
He blew out a breath. “Do you know what it’s like to race across town, all the while wondering if you’re still alive or if I’ll find you in a bloody heap?”
“I—”
“I bloody well hate it.” He cut me off, which told me just how upset he was, because Derek usually was the absolute soul of politeness. “Besides the actual worry, it’s…lowering, damn it.” He pounded the steering wheel. “To…feel…so much, and be able to do so little. It’s intolerable.”
“I know.” I sniffled and brushed away my tears. Damn stupid tears. “I can only say I’m sorry over and over again. I know what it feels like to worry, and I regret having put you through it. I didn’t mean to do it, Derek. I wouldn’t deliberately worry you and I hope you know that.”
“I appreciate your pretty apology.” But he didn’t sound particularly appreciative and I had a feeling this conversation was far from over.
In that case, I took another stab at trying to defend myself. After all, I really did feel bad about worrying him, but I had worried about him, too. And it wasn’t as if I was a ten-year-old. I was an adult and I couldn’t make every decision in my life by first thinking, Would Derek be angry?
“I thought we were going to talk to friends about an old cookbook that was stolen from their childhood village,” I reminded him, keeping my voice steady and reasonable. “I didn’t expect to find a bloodied body close to death and a crazed woman wielding a freaking butcher’s knife.”
“When you put it like that,” he said, his tone sardonic, “what else can I do but forgive you?”
I laughed, but not in a happy way. “Oh, yeah, I can tell you’ve forgiven me.”
He reached for my hand, brought it to his lips, and then held it tightly as he drove. I guessed that was a good sign. Most likely, we would keep butting heads over situations like this. But honestly, I ask you, what could I have done differently?