But I respect the fact that he didn’t bring it up. Not directly. And that he could read so much into my scant history available online. I was a fearless nine-year-old. And that lasted through ten, eleven, twelve. All the way up to sixteen.
But sixteen… I look down at my saddle shoes. The two-tone brown leather is scuffed and the soles are worn down just right. I wear them every day without fail. They remind me of happier times. Back when motorcycles were fun and I was fearless. Back when my family was whole and even though the people who raised me were transient—we moved from town to town and only stopped when we had to—their love was limitless. Back when living meant something more than military duty or solving crimes.
I kick my shoes off and pick them up, then take them into my bedroom and throw them in the closet. I don’t like people to see through me like that. And it’s not that I think Montgomery is being mean or facetious. I think he is genuinely interested in figuring me out. But I don’t want to be figured out. And I certainly don’t want to walk around with clues on my feet.
A chime announces an incoming text, so I walk out of my room to get my phone. It’s the chief. You better be on time today.
Well, duty calls. One more day and then some downtime this weekend. I really do need to get rid of Will’s bikes. I hate seeing that trailer every time I have to take the garbage out. This weekend I’ll—
“I’ll what?” I say out loud. The thought was there and then it wasn’t. It feels like a hole in my memory. “What did I do last Saturday? I got the bikes. I drove…”
And this is where it gets fuzzy. I drove home, obviously. But I don’t remember any of it.
“I drove—”
But another text from the chief comes in and jars me back to the present. Acknowledge me when I message you, Masters!
I text back, Leaving now. There’s no time to start wondering what I might’ve done last weekend.
I check the ammo in my gun, holster it under my arm, slip my feet into some hideous loafers in the coat closet, grab my jacket and purse and walk out the door.
They had a saying about me back when I was a fearless nine-year-old. Everyone from my father to the ringmaster used to sing it in my ear whenever I’d get lost in a daydream about life outside the business.
If wishes were horses, they’d say.
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
If turnips were watches, I’d wear one by my side.
If ‘ifs’ and ‘ands’ were pots and pans, there’d be no work for tinkers’ hands.
That was the song, anyway. But that’s not what they’d say.
If wishes were horses, you’d ride forever.
But they were wrong. Wishes were motorcycles.
I left the business behind years ago and all my dreams went with it.
Chapter Thirteen - Molly
Cathedral Thirteen is on the far east side of town and when you stand on the top step, just in front of the grand arched double doors, the view of the mountains is magnificent. I know. I’m standing there now and I’ve got horses, and wishes, and motorcycles on my mind.
“Detective Masters?” A gruff voice pulls me out of the daydream and a tall, dark man ascends the steps two at a time like he’s late.
Which he is. Four minutes. I’m typically punctual when I’m not waking up drunk with a head filled with questions, but I’m not a stickler over four minutes. He extends his hand to me and a ring gleams with a bright red stone set in what is most surely platinum on his ring finger. It’s his right hand, so not a wedding ring.
Don’t judge me, he’s very attractive.
“I apologize,” he says, grasping my hand firmly and giving it a gentle squeeze. Handshakes intrigue me. Mostly because I like to compare them. And the gentle squeeze from Thomas Brooks comes off as seductive. “The complexities of this day are almost beyond description.”
“Interesting,” I say, letting go of his hand without squeezing it back. My handshake responses are almost as intriguing as the offers. I shake a lot of hands as a detective. And I shook a lot more as a special agent in the military. Very high-level hands.
But Thomas Brooks’ attention on me is fleeting. His mind is on his party tonight as SkyEye Inc opens its new headquarters in the rehabbed ruin I’m standing in front of.
“But you don’t need to worry about security,” I say. “You asked for four dozen officers this afternoon, and we’ve called everyone to accommodate this request. Your party will come off without a hitch.”
“Perfect,” he says, opening one of the grand doors and stepping aside to wave me in.
“Wow,” I say, as my eyes are drawn up towards the panels of colored glass depicting the constellations. “That… is…”
He laughs as I search for the words. “Nice, isn’t it. We’ve got all eighty-eight original constellations up there. And the spire is Polaris.”
“The North Pole.”