Chapter 8 - The Face Hidden in Plain Sight
Iris Bennett had spent six years trusting Detective Samuel Reed.
That was what made the truth so difficult to accept.
He had been her friend.
Her mentor.
The person who brought her coffee when she worked late.
The man who once sat beside her through an entire night after a child witness described a murder.
He knew her habits.
Her schedule.
Her family.
He knew which stories frightened her.
And which compliments made her uncomfortable.
Iris thought about Wesley Hall.
The messages.
The carefully chosen words.
The way Wesley never added conditions to his compliments.
If only.
She felt sick.
Then an idea struck.
She opened her laptop.
Not to answer Wesley.
To examine the messages.
She had saved the entire conversation before giving police access to her phone.
Now she read them again.
The first message.
The jokes.
The questions.
The requests for money.
And one particular sentence.
You're too hard on yourself, Iris. You always think people see your mistakes before they see you.
She stared.
That sentence was familiar.
Not because Wesley had written it.
Because Samuel Reed had once said almost exactly the same thing.
Two years earlier, after Iris made an error in a preliminary sketch, Sam had told her:
You're too hard on yourself. You think people see the mistake before they see the artist.
She felt her stomach drop.
She searched the conversation.
Another message.
You deserve someone who doesn't ask you to be smaller.
That one came from a conversation with Sam about her mother's criticism.
Another.
You notice everything except when somebody genuinely cares about you.
Sam had said that too.
At first, she wanted to dismiss it.
Perhaps the phrases were common.
Perhaps she was imagining connections.
But then she found something that made her hands tremble.
Wesley had once mentioned her niece's school play.
A performance of The Wizard of Oz.
Iris had never told Wesley about it.
She had mentioned it to Sam during lunch.
The day before the performance.
Iris looked at the screen.
Then whispered, “Oh, Sam.”
She called Rebecca.
The lieutenant arrived an hour later.
Together, they went through the messages.
Rebecca took notes.
Asked questions.
Checked dates.
Then she looked at Iris.
“This suggests someone with personal knowledge of you may have helped write the messages.”
Iris nodded.
“Sam.”
“Possibly.”
“He knew everything.”
“We need proof.”
Iris opened another message.
The final one before Valentine's night.
Can't wait to finally see you.
She stared.
Then scrolled backward.
There it was.
A photograph Wesley had sent two weeks earlier.
Supposedly taken from his hotel room in Alberta.
A desk.
A laptop.
A cup of coffee.
A window overlooking snow-covered buildings.
Iris enlarged the image.
Rebecca frowned.
“What are you looking at?”
“The reflection.”
“What reflection?”
Iris pointed toward the laptop screen.
A faint outline appeared in the glossy black border.
A person holding the camera.
Only part of a face was visible.
But that wasn't what mattered.
There was a ring on the person's hand.
A silver band.
With a black rectangular stone.
Iris had seen that ring hundreds of times.
Sam wore it every day.
A gift from his father.
She looked at Rebecca.
“That's his ring.”
Rebecca leaned closer.
Then exhaled.
“We can compare it with photographs and obtain the original image metadata if it's available.”
Iris nodded.
For the first time, she wasn't simply suspicious.
She had a concrete lead.
And it broke her heart.
That night, Theodore arrived at Iris's apartment after she invited him over.
He carried no flowers.
No expensive jewelry.
Just two containers of takeout and a tired expression.
“You look like you haven't slept,” she said.
“Neither have you.”
“Fair.”
They sat at her kitchen table.
For a while, they talked about ordinary things.
Her neighbor's dachshund.
His mother's insistence on adopting a rescue cat.
The ridiculous cost of downtown parking.
Then Theodore looked at her.
“Rebecca told me about the messages.”
Iris lowered her eyes.
“I should have noticed.”
“You noticed now.”
“After three months.”
“After someone spent three months studying you.”
She looked up.
“Why are you being so understanding?”
Theodore seemed surprised.
“Shouldn't I be?”
“I don't know. Men like you usually prefer people who don't make mistakes.”
He considered that.
“Men like me?”
“Powerful men.”
He looked down at his hands.
“I've made more mistakes than anyone should.”
“That's not an answer.”
“No,” he admitted. “It isn't.”
He leaned forward.
“I spent years believing control was the same as protection. I thought if I had enough money, enough men, enough influence, nothing could happen to the people I loved.”
Iris listened.
“Then Joseph died.”
His voice was quiet.
“And I learned that none of it meant anything.”
She reached across the table.
Placed her hand over his.
He looked down.
Then back at her.
“Iris, I'm not a good man in every version of my story.”
“I know.”
“I've done things I'm not proud of.”
“I know that too.”
“I don't want you to misunderstand what being near me could mean.”
She was silent.
Then she asked, “Are you trying to warn me away?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you.”
The room became very quiet.
Iris stared.
“What?”
Theodore looked almost embarrassed.
A remarkable sight on a man who frightened half the city.
“I like you,” he repeated.
She felt warmth creep into her cheeks.
“That's terrible timing.”
“I know.”
“I'm involved in a murder investigation.”
“I know.”
“Someone is threatening my life.”
“I know.”
“And you're technically a person of interest in several financial crimes.”
“I know.”
Iris shook her head.
“This is ridiculous.”
“Yes.”
Then she laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because for the first time in days, the world felt a little less unbearable.
Theodore smiled.
A small smile.
But real.
And Iris realized she had never seen him smile like that before.
She squeezed his hand.
“I like you too.”
His expression softened.
Then his phone rang.
Anthony Russo.
Theodore answered.
Listened.
And stood abruptly.
“What happened?” Iris asked.
He looked at her.
“They found Samuel.”
Her heart jumped.
“Where?”
“In an abandoned apartment near the river.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
“Then what's wrong?”
Theodore's face hardened.
“Because he says he wants to make a deal.”
Iris rose.
“What kind of deal?”
Theodore hesitated.
Then answered.
“He says he'll tell us where Amelia is.”
Iris stared.
“And?”
May you like
Theodore's voice became very quiet.
“But only if he speaks to you alone.”
