I rubbed my temple, disliking how when I carried on reading through the report, my mind kept leapfrogging to Lena. It wasn’t like Jags were that uncommon, but that paint job had been custom. It was so dark, it was close to black with green highlights, and from the woman’s description, ‘an odd black color. In the light, it turned green,’ it just hit me on the raw. Then, there was a sketch of the woman behind the wheel.
Those things were usually shit. The illustrations all over the place and hardly accurate, but when I saw the bright red hair that curled into a topknot, as well as traced the similarity in the drawing’s features to the woman I knew, I’d admit to feeling faintly antsy.
Aidan had bought her that Jag as a wedding anniversary gift. He’d had it brought over from England as a surprise, and I remember him rolling his eyes and cursing women drivers when she’d had to take it into the shop a couple of months later.
I stared at the ceiling for only God knew how long, wondering what the fuck I was going to do.
I’d gone from being happy that my wife was back home, to learning that she somehow knew my mother, revealing my past, and then her asking me to investigate her mom’s death. But that was the thing with these kinds of accidents; they were accidental. There was no motive to be found. No reasoning.
Just a split second’s inattention and bang. Someone was dead, you were shitting yourself, and rather than hang around and face the music, you tore off out of there.
It was flight or fight at its most basic level.
Though I hoped I was barking up the wrong tree, even though the weird color of the car and that fucking sketch said otherwise, I was left stuck in the middle of a horrendous crossroads.
I stayed close to Aoife as I went through my options. One arm curved around her, one arm behind my head as I wondered what kind of Pandora’s box we’d just opened.
If Aoife’s mother had been knocked down by Magdalena, there was no way I’d be able to hand her over to the police simply by way of who she was. No way I’d even want to hand her over, though. Lena was like my mother, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t want her to go to jail, but if she’d run down Michelle…
My throat felt thick with concern because even if I betrayed Aidan by reporting Lena, he’d get her off the charge. He’d pay anything to keep her safe. I knew that like I knew my face in the mirror.
Plus, there was every chance that this case had been classified as ‘unsolved’ for a reason. Aidan might have already paid off the cops in charge of the investigation.
I was, I realized by three AM, fucked.
And not in the way I’d envisaged on my first night home with my wife after a few months.
At four, I gave up on trying to sleep and headed for the gym. After a ten-mile run, I’d killed some time and Aoife was out for the count. I’d intended on waking up with her, on sharing a leisurely breakfast to celebrate her all-clear and our first morning back home, before I got started on work, but I had to know if this leap was illogical—and God, I hoped it was.
Showering and dressing as quickly and as quietly as I could, I sneaked out and saw that it was five-thirty. By the time I made it to Aidan’s house, it would be nearer six and he was usually awake by then. He didn’t sleep well, and considering he was a sick bastard, it was only right that he couldn’t. Not even confession could cleanse a man’s soul totally.
I drove myself to the house and felt sick with each mile I passed. Even as I hoped it wasn’t Lena, my gut said it was, but discovering the truth would provide no closure to Aoife. It would only bring extra heartache in the long run.
Magdalena, if guilty, had about as much of a shot of seeing the inside of a jail cell as Jesus himself.
Which put me in the shittiest Catch 22 in the universe.
If Aoife discovered the truth, she’d rightfully loathe Lena. Resentment would grow, and it would tear at our relationship because there was no justice for her mother’s passing.
In my shoes, if someone hurt Lena, I’d tear down this fucking city to